


The Winter War

by Morgenleoht



Series: A Winter of Dragons [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Fantastic Racism, Mentions of genocide, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Persecution, Stormcloaks, Suicide, The Companions - Freeform, Torture, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht
Summary: Ulfric Stormcloak has launched a winter campaign to liberate Skyrim.Farkas of the Companions seeks to find a cure for the beast blood so that he may choose to be with the Dragonborn Aurelia Callaina freely instead of being ruled by bestial instincts.Irkand Aurelius desires to combine business and personal vengeance so that he may become the predator he was born to be.In a winter of dragons, the fate of Skyrim will be decided and not even the greatest will be spared.





	1. The Battle for Whiterun

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. This story is parallel to ‘Certain as Death and Taxes’ and contains the Companions, Dark Brotherhood and Civil War storylines, as they are intertwined in this universe. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, torture, criminal acts, and mentions of genocide, misogyny and religious persecution.

 

 “Shit. Shit. Shit!”

            Balgruuf indulged himself in a stream of curses on discovering that Callaina left Whiterun and her status as Thane behind. The guards reported her as spending some time at Jorrvaskr before taking the road to Windhelm. Had he pushed her towards the Stormcloaks?

            The next few days were spent estimating his defences, resources and remaining gold in the treasury. Piss-weak and piss-poor were the best ways to describe his situation on that front. His one asset was gone. The good Legate Rikke was dropping hints about the Legionnaires who could protect Whiterun. The harvest was being brought in and so his taxes were vulnerable to raids.

            A week went by. Farkas and Njada returned from Windhelm and word leaked out that Callaina had tended the war-wounded of Giant’s Gap. She was also apparently under a sacred oath not to go for the Ruby Throne according to another rumour. Irkand Aurelius disappeared. The Companions were in tumult over something. A werewolf murdered Vittoria Vici at her own wedding in Solitude. Balgruuf was relieved he’d declined the invitation.

            The axe fell in the most literal way possible. Ralof of Riverwood, Ulfric’s chief lackey, arrived one morning just after breakfast with a well-honed axe from the esteemed Jarl of Windhelm. Balgruuf the Greater was now forced to make a choice.

            “Let me consult with my advisers,” he told the golden-blond Ralof, his first cousin twice removed or something like that. His great-grandfather should have kept his pants up. “I will meet with you again in two days.”

            Ralof’s bright blue eyes were calm. “Does Skyrim really have two days to spare? Every day you delay a choice, the more the people suffer under the boots of the Thalmor.”

            “Return in two days and I will give you my answer.” Balgruuf nodded curtly at Ulfric’s lackey. “Dismissed.”

            The Stormcloak took himself off and Balgruuf buried his face in his hands. What was Ulfric planning to make a deal of it _now_? He expected the ultimatum to come in late winter, just in time for a spring campaign.

            The Jarl of Whiterun blanched when he realised the Stormcloaks’ plan. Then he yelled for Irileth.

            He’d be damned if that barbarian renegade fed his army on the largess of Whiterun.

…

“Balgruuf has reacted as expected.”

            “Of course he has.” Ralof leaned over the map of Whiterun, smiling wryly at Hjornskar Head-Smasher. “The question is are we ready?”

            “We’re ready,” the commander announced proudly. “You’re certain he’ll garrison Rorikstead?”

            “The breadbasket of his Hold? Aye.” Ralof had a swig of mead. “More troops around the farms too.”

            “What’s the likelihood of him going to the Legion?”

            “Moderate to high. He’s been leaning that way for a while. This will push him unless he develops a sudden sense of honour.” Ralof’s tone conveyed his doubt. “Prepare the men for a night sortie. I have to confirm that Balgruuf is actually our enemy.”

            It was dusk when he was allowed into Balgruuf’s presence. The Jarl sat lazily on his throne, clad in ceremonial robes and glaring magnificently. Ralof noted the trim muscles and old scars of an experienced warrior. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

            “You have left me no choice,” Balgruuf said heavily. “You are locusts who will devour my Hold’s winter stores. I must stand with the Empire to preserve Whiterun’s prosperity.”

            “Then you leave me no choice but to take your city at the sword’s point,” Ralof said grimly.

            “You’re welcome to try. The Legion will be here before you can muster the men.” Balgruuf’s smile was thin.

            “You should kill him now,” suggested the Imperial Legate who walked out of Farengar’s office. “You’ll deprive Ulfric of a valued officer.”

            “No, the laws of war and hospitality must be respected, Cipius,” Balgruuf sighed. “Go and tell Ulfric that his head will be adorning a pike soon enough.”

            Ralof shook his head. “I won’t have to because you’ll be without your city.”

            He turned on his heel and stalked out. Balgruuf’s greed had won out over his honour. That left Ralof and the Stormcloaks no choice.

…

“Into Jorrvaskr!”

            The civilians of Whiterun ran before the Stormcloaks and up the stairs. Farkas waved them inside, knowing that even the most ardent rebel wouldn’t attack the Companions. Not when a big part of their fight was about restoring Nord ways to Skyrim.

            He saw Amren’s hand tighten on his iron sword and bellowed out, “Get in here!” The Redguard fell back, face twisted at what he perceived to be his own cowardice. But he didn’t need to die fruitlessly and leave his family without protection.

            “We take the crown!” bellowed the golden-blond commander who was Ulfric’s new chief lackey. “If I catch anyone looting before we enter Dragonsreach, I’ll pike his head at the gates!”

            “And if we catch anyone looting _after_ , I’ll cut you in two!” Farkas yelled from the doors of Jorrvaskr. “This ain’t our fight but damned if we’re gonna let you hurt the civilians of Whiterun!”

            The commander – Ralof, if Farkas remembered right – nodded in understanding. “Balgruuf’s treasury is ours,” he called out.

            “Don’t care what happens to it. We just protect the people of Skyrim!”

            Ralof turned and headed up the stairs, breaking past the barricades by dint of smashing them with his steel warhammer.

            Farkas slammed the doors closed. Everyone was either here or hiding in their houses or maybe at the Bannered Mare getting drunk.

            “Do you really think we can stop the common soldiers from looting?” Irkand asked mildly from his seat on the bench near Vignar’s bedroom. “It is the right of the victor.”

            “Lots of things are supposedly the right of the winner. Don’t mean I’ll let it happen,” Farkas growled. These days, the Redguard rubbed him the wrong way. Irkand should be more worried about Arnbjorn slaughtering Vittoria Vici so blatantly than he was.

            “And you’ll make an enemy of the Stormcloaks.” His fellow werewolf shrugged broad shoulders. “It’s the way of war, Farkas. If Ulfric’s doing a winter campaign as we suspect-“

            “War happens and we can’t change that. But we can make sure the soldiers of Skyrim follow the laws of it,” Vilkas said dryly as he handed out flagons of small ale to the frightened civilians. “We are the arbiters of honour for Skyrim. A winter war… It is dangerous but clever. The Imperials aren’t used to our cold and snow.”

            “Do you think the Stormcloaks will win then?” Adrianne Avenicci asked worriedly.

            “I dunno,” Farkas admitted honestly. “Ulfric’s got some good talent in his command staff and most of his officers _were_ Legion once. Korli once said her mother was a general born and that if Arius had listened more to her, the Aurelii mighta been on the Ruby Throne today.”

            “Sigdrifa Stormsword’s that good,” Njada confirmed. “She’s more, ah, flexible than Ulfric on certain things. That means she can match the Legion tactically.”

            “This means the Legion’s going to show no mercy when they retake Whiterun,” Ria countered. “And what’s going to happen to the Imperials here?”

            “You’re a Companion of Jorrvaskr,” Njada said. “You won’t be in trouble. And civilians will be safe – we’ve got an alchemist, an author and a couple other Imperials living just fine in Windhelm. I don’t know what will happen to Adrianne’s father though but the rest of you will be fine.”

            “Tullius will have Whiterun under siege within the week,” Ria said bluntly.

            “And within that week, we’ll have the harvests in or destroyed, so they’ll be hungrier than us.” Vignar’s voice was aged but strong as he emerged from his bedroom in his finest coat. “Kodlak, I might as well resign from the Companions. If the Stormcloaks win…”

            The Harbinger sighed. “Clan Grey-Mane is the next in line. I’m not happy but… I understand.”

            “Thank you.” Vignar regarded Ria and the other Imperials calmly. “You have my word that no one who doesn’t lift a hand against the Stormcloaks will be harmed. Ulfric is my kinsman; he will listen.”

            “How can you commit this… treason?” Ria burst out.

            “ _Treason_ , girl, is betraying the Nord Legions who saved the Empire at the Battle of the Red Ring,” Vignar rumbled. “ _Treason_ is spitting on the god who founded the Empire.”

            “Don’t,” Vilkas murmured to the Imperial. Then he cast a scornful look at Vignar. “You’ve been politicking with Ulfric, haven’t you?”

            “I am his eldest kinsman,” Vignar said simply. “I stand a good chance of being the next Jarl.”

            _“Vignar.”_ Kodlak’s voice held a sea of disappointment. “It’s a good thing you’ve retired from the Companions because I would have had to throw you out for violating our political neutrality.”

            Outside, the clashing of weapons ended and horns blasted victory. The Stormcloaks had won; they used horker-ivory horns, higher-pitched than the mammoth-ivory ones of the southern Holds. Farkas sighed. The damage to property would be immense and no doubt Ulfric would be ruthless in his demands for food and support. He’d leave Whiterun enough to survive the winter but come the spring, they’d be gaunt as hibernating bears.

            “Balgruuf should have joined the Stormcloaks,” Irkand eventually said. “There is no force stronger than that fighting for their homeland. If he escapes with his life, it’s because Ulfric will want to make him suffer.”

            “Such a _fine_ choice for High King they’ve got,” Ria said bitterly.

            Irkand’s expression was opaque. “Titus Mede is no better, girl. But it matters not. This is one battle in a war.”

            Kodlak’s iron-grey eyes were grim. “Whoever wins Whiterun has control of Skyrim,” he said. “Morthal and Falkreath will fall easily enough. The Reach and Solitude can be blockaded via land and since Ulfric controls the other two major ports in Skyrim…”

            The Harbinger shook his head. “All we can do is make certain this war is ended as honourably as possible – and look to our own affairs.”

            _Find a cure for the beast blood,_ Farkas translated. The Circle was split down the middle over the idea and in the end, it was decided that each member choose for themselves. Farkas wanted to be free of the beast blood as much for himself as for Korli. He wanted to choose her, not have it chosen for him.

            Someone banged on the front doors. “The fighting is over!” yelled Ralof. “All civilians will be permitted to return to their homes once they’ve handed over their weapons!”

            “Some of us make our living as mercenaries!” Jenassa retorted. “And there are hunters like Anoriath too!”

            Now Farkas might have made a suggestion that those who were freelancers join the Companions, but Jenassa was a cold-hearted killer with less honour than Irkand and Uthgerd killed a whelp in her first training session. Instead he went to the doors and opened them. “How about the Companions have custody of the weapons and return them after a week or so, huh?”

            Ralof, covered in blood, nodded slowly. “That is a good idea. This attack… We had no choice. We had to gain Whiterun before the Legion arrived. Balgruuf had sided with the Empire.”

            “Then you’ll be besieged by the Legion in a week,” Ria said firmly.

            The commander’s smile was grim. “No, Companion. The Legion is… occupied elsewhere. Or will be soon enough.”

            Farkas regarded the blond. “Has Balgruuf surrendered? If not, me and Vilkas will oversee it.”

            “That is another good idea.” Ralof smirked. “Seems like being around the Dragonborn’s given you a few brains, Farkas. Did she make it to Winterhold?”

            “Yeah.” Farkas wondered if punching a Stormcloak in the face was breaking neutrality or not. “And if you doubt her again, Ralof, you’ll be shitting your teeth.”

            “You’d have to get in line,” he said dryly. “I think Egil would beat you to it.”

            “I’m faster than Egil.” Farkas held the Stormcloak’s gaze. “And I don’t care about politics.”

            Ralof shrugged. “Let’s make the surrender formal so we can get this city into order.”

            Farkas sighed as Vilkas strode over to join him. Dragons and a civil war all at once. He hoped Skyrim survived.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. This chapter’s set directly after Chapter 21 of ‘Certain as Death and Taxes’.

“It’s done.”

            Irkand was less than amused at his all-night run to Dawnstar, the staging area of the Stormcloaks’ assault on Haafinger and Morthal from the north, but Astrid’s instructions had been clear. The death itself had been easy enough; teeth and claws allowed him to make short work of his victim. The reporting was going to raise awkward questions with the client, however.

            Sigdrifa Stormsword raised one of her thick arching eyebrows but said nothing. It was strange how she and Callaina looked so much alike yet one was harsh-boned and craggy while the other was strong-boned and sculpted. Rustem’s Redguard blood, Irkand supposed. If he couldn’t have been Dragonborn, it would have been better for the world if the pragmatic Priestess of Talos was. Callaina was… less than ideal. But he’d washed his hands of her since she refused to accept her duties as humanity’s saviour.

            “I owed them a death,” he finally admitted. “I am surprised, however, that you were the client.”

            “Ulfric’s too sentimental,” Sigdrifa said. “Vignar Grey-Mane was eighty, senile and incapable of lifting a sword. Skyrim’s new Jarls need to be, if not young, at least vigorous and capable of holding their own in combat.”

            “This won’t threaten your campaign?”

            “Talos, no. Ralof’s the next option for Jarl in Whiterun. Frankly, he should have received the job after taking the city.” The Stormsword knuckled her eyes wearily. “Any word from Falkreath or Whiterun?”

            “Nothing from Falkreath but your daughter’s evading her duty as Dragonborn _again_ ,” Irkand said disgustedly.

            “Actually, she’s focusing on a more immediate danger as foreseen by the Harbinger,” Sigdrifa corrected. “The mages found something in Saarthal and from what I’ve been told, her presence means the difference between life and death in Winterhold.”

            “I… see.” Irkand grimaced. “Mages.”

            “I practice magic and Korlaina… Well, Wuunferth thinks that when she comes into her own as an Alteration mage, she could crack the world in two at the right place and time. Or,” Sigdrifa added, looking pointedly at him, “Keep it together. The Thalmor have an agent at the College after all.”

            Irkand grimaced again. He didn’t like being proven wrong. “She’s still a spoiled brat acting out because she doesn’t like being advised, Sigdrifa.”

            “The Septim Empire is dead,” the Stormsword responded bluntly. “Even a Dragonborn Empress wouldn’t stop this rebellion from happening. That’s not taking into account the oaths she was forced to swear on the Septim Dragon in the Temple of the One. I don’t even want to consider the consequences of breaking them.”

            He grunted sourly. “Half the Legions would defect if they knew the Dragonborn was a Septim.”

            “I’m counting on the fact that half the Legions are Nords who will be pleased to know that the Stormcloak rebellion is supported by a Dragonborn Septim,” Sigdrifa said mildly. “The skalds are already spreading the word.”

            “Waste of time.”

            “Irkand, I don’t tell you how to butcher people. Don’t tell me how to plan a war.” Sigdrifa reached for a flagon of water. “Go tell Astrid the payment’s in the usual place.”

            So the Stormsword had a working relationship with the Dark Brotherhood. Irkand supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. “Good luck. I think Rikke’s already planning the counterattack on Whiterun.”

            “And I’ll flank her from the north, east and west.” Sigdrifa smiled thinly. “As I said, don’t tell me how to plan a war.”

            Irkand shook his head and exited her tent. Nords always celebrated the victory before it was done. Not his problem though. He had a debt to repay and a duty to finish.

…

“Kynareth preserve us.”

            The Dragonborn’s shocked oath on seeing the carnage in Vignar Grey-Mane’s room was politer than anything Ralof could manage. The Colovian upbringing, he guessed; they’d maintain politeness in the face of Alduin Himself. She was almost pale as a true Nord but otherwise composed.

            The Companions Farkas and Vilkas, on the other hand, were pissed. “Werewolf,” the former growled. “Probably the same one who killed Vittoria Vici up in Solitude.”

            “That was a Dark Brotherhood hit, right?” Ralof asked.

            “Yeah. And they don’t play favourites. To kill a Jarl would have cost a lot.” Farkas exchanged glances with his twin. “We need to hunt down Arnbjorn. He was a Companion once until he was taken by the beast.”

            Callaina’s expression was now strained, which was interesting. Ralof knew better than to press the woman who should Shout him arse over head though. That wasn’t counting Farkas’ threats or the Stormsword’s retribution.

            “What about the Silver Hand? I hear they’re werewolf hunters,” suggested Hjornskar Head-Smasher, now chief of the Stormcloak militia.

            “They ain’t fussy about who they kill, werewolf or not,” Farkas said flatly. “Leave it to us.”

            Ralof nodded. “Of course. The Dark Brotherhood are becoming a blight upon our people and have dared to kill a Talos-anointed Jarl. I trust the Companions to deal with the renegade.”

            He would, however, talk to Hjornskar some more about the Silver Hand. Werewolves were plaguing the Whiterun tundra and no one knew where they laired. Until Ulfric chose a Jarl to replace Vignar, Ralof was in command here and he had a duty to do the right thing by Whiterun. He was born in his Hold and all his kin were here, after all.

…

“It was Irkand.”

            Korli didn’t bother to mince words once they were back in Jorrvaskr. Farkas wasn’t surprised she’d figured it out. He only wished he’d realised why Vignar’s smell was on the Redguard as he left the Hold.

            Kodlak looked grim. “Yes. And forgive me, Korli, but your inability to resolve your differences with your uncle has led to this.”

            The Dragonborn regarded him sadly. “I’m not responsible for Irkand’s life choices, Harbinger. Just because he was made a tool by Grandfather doesn’t mean I want to be one for the Blades _or_ the Greybeards.”

            Skjor sighed. “So we have to hunt another brother.”

            “Irkand won’t attack you unless you attack him,” Korli said. “ _You_ should be more worried about this Silver Hand. I suspect Ralof’s going to contact them despite what he told the twins.”

            Vilkas lifted his chin. “You’re saying we should allow Irkand to go unpunished?”

            “I’m advising you to choose your fights carefully. Irkand has no honour when it comes to his enemies.”

            “That’s true,” Aela agreed. “Vilkas, it would take the entire Circle to bring Irkand down and none of us would walk away unwounded.”

            “So what do you advise?” Kodlak asked with a sigh.

            “We tell him to leave.” Skjor’s voice was sad. “The Dragonborn has a point about trying to fight him. I’m Irkand’s progenitor and at least we know he won’t kill innocents the way Arnbjorn does.”

            “Unless he’s ordered to,” Korli said sourly. “The Thalmor weren’t the only ones committing atrocities in the Great War.”

            She stood up on her toes to kiss Farkas on the cheek. “I better get to Winterhold. Ancano’s running around and we need to learn the Psijic Order’s stake in this whole affair. I’ll swing by when I can, love.”

            He nuzzled her hair. “You worry about that eye and maze and Alduin. We can handle the rest.”

            “Thanks, love.” She kissed his mouth this time and he returned it until Kodlak coughed pointedly.

            Despite the situation, Skjor was grinning. “About time you found a mate, Farkas.”

            “She’s the reason I wanna be clean. Want to choose it for myself, not have it chosen for me.”

            The old werewolf nodded slowly. “I can respect that reasoning. I don’t want to find out what would happen if the Dragonborn received the beast blood, so the moon-bond would go one way, which is unfair.”

            “That’s a good point,” Korli agreed. She nodded to the others. “I’ll hopefully see you in a few weeks. Watch your backs in the meantime. Skyrim would be a sadder place without you.”

            She left Kodlak’s study and Farkas sighed. Between Irkand going rogue, the need to hunt Arnbjorn and the search for a cure, it was going to be a bad time for the Companions and he wished she could stay. But Kodlak was right – she had her duties and they had theirs. Gods help them, because it was going to get ugly before the end.

…

Bjarni Ulfricsson wasn’t a charismatic man like his father, a great general like his mother or even a leader like his brother. But he had strength, honour and courage, the gifts Shor gave the Nords to survive in a harsh world. He wasn’t interested in writing his name in fire across the sky. He wanted to see a free Skyrim and his Hold of Falkreath prosper.

            Grandfather Dengeir greeted him with a wan smile. The old man might be paranoid but he was no fool. “You have your work cut out for you,” he explained quietly. “Siddgeir himself is easy to defeat in combat. But you need to win the folk to your side.”

            “Mother told me to become Thane first,” Bjarni replied. “That should be easy enough.”

            Dengeir chuckled harshly. “Not so easy, boy. _I_ would test you first. There is a place called the Bloodlet Throne to the southeast of Falkreath. Once, it was the crowning fortress of the Kreathling Jarls. But then your great-grandfather Balgeir became a vampire. Now he rules a coven of vampires.”

            Bjarni felt the blood drain from his face. “You want me to kill him.”

            “Yes.” Dengeir folded his arms. “I am Dengeir of Stuhn and for creatures like this, there can be no mercy. I don’t care how you do it, just see it done.”

            For the first time in his life, Bjarni felt the need to pray and the thrill of fear in his veins. Maybe he needed a little more than strength, honour and courage.


	3. Falkreath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. This chapter happens after Chapter 22 in Taxes.
> 
> …

 

Irkand returned to Jorrvaskr later in the week and found himself confronted by a sombre, sorrowful Skjor. One look at his progenitor’s expression told him he knew everything.

            “Why?” he asked.

            “I stole a Dark Brotherhood kill and owed them a death,” he explained simply. “We both know that Vignar was old and senile.”

            Skjor was shrewd. “Vittoria Vici?”

            “Yes. It was on the order of the Blades’ current Grand Master.” Irkand sighed. “I took werewolf form to throw blame on Arnbjorn.”

            “And wound up killing one of our own.” Skjor sighed and shook his head. “By rights we should hunt you down, Irkand.”

            “I don’t want to fight you, Skjor.” Irkand let his sincerity bleed into his voice.

            “Good. None of us want to fight you because some would die and the rest would be damaged.” Skjor’s smile was bitter. “You’ve made your choice and we have to make ours, Irkand. For the good of the Companions, you’re banned from Jorrvaskr on pain of death.”

            Irkand echoed Skjor’s sigh. He was relieved that they didn’t want to fight. Killing Skjor and Aela would be hard, though he wouldn’t cry if it was Farkas or Vilkas. “Understood. My things?”

            “Here.” Skjor thrust Irkand’s satchel at him. “Watch yourself. The Silver Hand are out there.”

            “Thank you for the warning.” Irkand regarded Skjor sadly. “We’re predators, Skjor. Why do you let an archaic code hold you back?”

            “I’m a Companion of Jorrvaskr and choose my own path, not kill at the whim of others,” the old warrior countered. “Please don’t do anything that will get the Companions sent after you, Irkand. I’d hate to kill my own whelp.”

            Irkand gave a twisted smile. “You mean you’d hate to be killed by your own whelp, old man.”

            “Maybe. I have Aela to live for.” He sighed again. “Go. Vilkas is on his way and he’s of the firm belief we should kill you.”

            “The world would be a less abrasive place without that hypocrite in it,” Irkand pointed out. “And a wiser one without his brother.”

            Skjor’s eyes glittered. “Farkas and Korlaina are well on the way to becoming mated, Irkand.”

            “She likes them big and stupid then.” Irkand shrugged. “Farewell, Skjor. Give Aela my regards.”

            “I will.” He sighed and turned away.

            Irkand entered the Underforge for the last time, leaving Whiterun under the light of two full moons. He was relieved, actually. Astrid had revealed the endgame of her plans and the opportunity for vengeance was too good to pass up.

            Titus Mede II would die but not before his entire lineage was defamed and destroyed. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get a taste of what Irkand went through when his own family died.

…

Finding soldiers to go hunting vampires was proving more difficult than Bjarni expected. His cousin Siddgeir failed to recognise him – no wonder, as Sigdrifa’s eldest son more resembled Ulfric than the Kreathling dynasty – and there were no mercenaries about. A bottle of Black-Briar mead earned a measure of Siddgeir’s favour though – and the task of clearing out a band of robbers at Embershard Mine that had scanted on tithes to the corrupt Jarl. Bjarni wanted to kill his cousin on fucking principle when he found that bit out.

            He didn’t dare get soldiers from the Falkreath Stormcloak camp. His father had made it clear that this was a task he had to achieve on his own or with resources he himself raised. Alliance, coin, promises – it didn’t matter. Bjarni had to prove himself a worthy heir of the Stormcloak, able to stand alone if Ulfric fell.

            In the meantime, he learned the trials and tribulations of Falkreath’s people. Mathies and his Imperial wife lost their daughter to a werewolf named Sinding, currently held in the pit in Falkreath Jail. Old Runil had been a Thalmor until he converted to the worship of Arkay in horror at his actions during the Great War. His grandfather was certain that Lod, his own huscarl and the village blacksmith, was betraying him. Great-Uncle Thadgeir was too scared to approach Runil with his late huscarl Berit’s ashes.

            While he mulled over which problem to attack first – werewolf, bandits or vampires – he settled Dengeir and Thadgeir’s issues readily enough, learning that Runil lost a journal in a sacred grotto just inside the Whiterun border. His kinsmen sorted, Bjarni finally decided to deal with the issue at hand, and approached Sinding in the prison.

            Being cursed by a magical ring that transformed him into a werebear hadn’t been part of the plan. Bjarni, however, was a pragmatic sort. Here was the strength to deal with the bandits and vampires. It was dishonourable and if he perished in the doing so, he’d go to Hircine instead of Sovngarde, but Sigdrifa had always stressed a Jarl used whatever tools fell to hand. Here was a tool. He might as well use it.

            The bandits in Embershard Mine died screaming, their blood sweet on the tongue. When Bjarni returned to human form, he vomited in disgust. The hunt had been magnificent, his prowess unstoppable. He had the might of the bear and the wit of a man. He understood that Daedric power corrupted. He needed to be free of this curse.

            If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was hunt. Ralof had taught him as a child and taken him on an ice wraith hunt. Bjarni prayed to Kyne Kiss-at-the-End, begging Her forgiveness for the transgression of being a werebeast, and then took dagger, bow and steel arrows to hunt for this sacred white stag of Hircine’s. He transformed twice during the hunt but stayed where he was until the shift passed. He would hunt as a man, not as a beast, and to Oblivion with Hircine.

            The stag died hard, tougher and wilier than any creature should be, and Bjarni received wounds that would scar. He drank a healing potion as Hircine manifested in the form of the stag, his voice dripping with mildly impressed amusement. “Sinding found a patsy, I see,” the Daedric Prince observed dryly. “How are you enjoying the bear form? I thought you deserved the shape of your namesake.”

            “I’m flattered,” Bjarni said with equal dryness. “But unwashed bandit really doesn’t taste that good, so I think I would like to pass on your blessing, if I may.”

            Hircine chuckled. “Sinding stole that ring from Me. Go to Bloated Man’s Grotto and hunt him. Whosoever catches and skins him will receive a superior boon from Me. If it’s you, I’ll also remove the curse.”

            “Competition, Lord of the Hunt?”

            “Of course. What kind of hunt would it be if there wasn’t a challenge?” Hircine chuckled again, this time a little cruelly. “Time’s wasting, little prince. You better hurry.”

            He faded, leaving Bjarni cursing foully. Then he headed for Bloated Man’s Grotto, where Runil had lost his journal. Two birds, one stone, he supposed.

            It was a long, exhausting trek and he transformed thrice, one of them at Half-Moon Mill. Finding out that the two lumberjacks there were vampires delayed him long enough that dawn was touching the sky under a double full moon by the time he reached the grotto.

            The hunters, all worshippers of Hircine, let him pass. They’d be competing soon enough. He tracked down Sinding near a hidden shrine of Talos and hid amongst the leaves, watching the werewolf defile the katana laid across its feet by picking it up. For the death of the child, this foul beast had to die.

            Bjarni roared his battle-cry and launched himself at Sinding, who swiftly transformed and fled deeper into the grotto. The youth grabbed the dropped katana – its balance was superb – and chased after him.

            What followed was the red mist of the berserkers, not the predatory fury of a werebear. Bjarni returned to himself before a wounded battered Sinding in werewolf form, covered in blood – some of which was his – and glaring at the beast. “You killed a child because you wanted to have your mead and drink it too,” he declared flatly. “Any last wishes?”

            “If I go to the Hunting Grounds, so do you!” Sinding retorted and leapt at him.

            Instinctively, Bjarni lifted the katana – and Sinding impaled himself on it, his heavy form driving them both to the ground. The werewolf shuddered and died as the sun lit up the grotto.

            Gritting his teeth against the burn of his wounds and the exhaustion in his bones, Bjarni skinned the werewolf. At the act’s completion, Hircine manifested in Sinding’s ghostly form. “Impressive,” the Daedric Prince observed cheerfully. “No use of the werebear form and you took on superior odds. You’ve more than earned the removal of the curse.”

            The ring melted off Bjarni’s finger and he nodded in gratitude to the god. “Thank you. He killed one of my people and I had to avenge her.”

            Hircine’s expression became crafty. “You could protect them better in werebear form. I could give you complete command of it. You could raise your own warband of _bjornhednar_ to destroy the Empire and the Thalmor.”

            “I appreciate the offer but I’m a Nord.” Bjarni lifted the bloody katana. “I use my courage, strength, honour and steel to protect my people, not a magic that deprives me of Sovngarde.”

            “Sovngarde’s overrated. The hunting there is terrible,” Hircine noted dryly. “But as you wish.”

            He knelt and took Sinding’s skin and the stag’s hide from the earth, breathing on them. The furs writhed and melded into a set of light armour with long sleeves and leggings, the deerskin breastplate crowned with a snarling bear and fringed with bearskin. “Saviour’s Hide,” Hircine said offhandedly. “Proof against poisons and magics. Wear it with pride, little hunter, for you’ll need it against Molag Bal’s children in the Bloodlet Throne.”

            Then he faded into nothingness, leaving the armour behind. Bjarni finally shrugged and picked up the armour. This, at least, did nothing but protect him from outside dangers. It would also be a tale for the Poetic Edda.

            He donned Saviour’s Hide, wiped off the katana before buckling it to his waist and went to the Shrine of Talos to pray. There he found a journal stained with blood and a skeleton in rusted Blades armour.

            _“To he who finds this, know that I, Acilius Bolar, last of the Blades to survive the attack on Cloud Ruler Temple, took refuge here, in this ancient sanctuary. The Thalmor have come for me, but they shall not desecrate this place. I go forth to meet my death with honour. If you are worthy, take up my blade and do the same.”_

Bjarni wept as he buried the Blade with huscarl rites at the foot of the statue. Acilius deserved a seat in Sovngarde for his faith and loyalty. Then he prayed for the Blade, for himself, for his family, for Falkreath and Skyrim. It was sunset by the time he finished stacking a crude cairn over Bolar’s remains.

            “You didn’t die in vain,” he told the warrior’s grave. “Arius Aurelius’ granddaughter, the last Septim, is the Dragonborn. She’s my sister. You probably knew her.”

            “Callaina? Little sickly Callaina?” The voice was hollow and echoing. Bjarni spun around to face a blue-white ghost in Blades armour. “I thought it was Irkand. We all did.”

            “Akatosh chose otherwise,” Bjarni told the Blade. “Irkand’s a killer. Korlaina isn’t. She broke a dragon’s back with rocks though.”

            Acilius sighed gustily. “I will tell the others in Heaven’s Reach Temple to prepare ourselves for the final battle. I thank you, son of Sigdrifa. Talos guide and guard you.”

            “Talos guide and guard you,” Bjarni said solemnly as the ghost faded.

            He went searching for Runil’s journal. Soon he would deal with his vampiric kinsman in the Bloodlet Throne. It would help to have Arkay’s blessing in that endeavour.


	4. Honour and Dishonour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and violence. I’m so, so, so very sorry. Playing around with the sequence of the Companion storyline.

 

“I want to put Ria through her Proving.”

            It was the first Circle meeting after Irkand’s eviction from Jorrvaskr and it was Vilkas who spoke. Farkas’ brother paced around, his beast blood and refusal to shift making him restless. They were all edgy. They should have killed Irkand but none of the Circle would have walked away undamaged from that fight. Now the Dark Brotherhood had claimed two of their brethren.

            “She’s not quite ready,” Skjor said. “Athis, on the other hand-“

            “Ria’s leavin’ for Cyrodiil soon,” Farkas interrupted. “She has to. Got family business there. Should send her back a Companion.”

            Of the Circle, only Kodlak, Farkas and Vilkas knew Ria’s true identity. The other Companions knew she was a Nibenese noble who’d left Cyrodiil to avoid an arranged marriage. They didn’t know the half of it.

            “Ralof’s already promised that Companions are to be treated like Nords,” Aela pointed out.

            “She got business there,” Farkas repeated. “Korli was the one who told her she should go soon.”

            Kodlak nodded in confirmation. “The Dragonborn has an eye for trouble. Ria needs to return to Cyrodiil. She’s related to Vittoria Vici and with her cousin’s murder, she may very well be a target.”

            “Is there something we need to know, Kodlak?” Skjor asked, eyes narrowed.

            The Harbinger exchanged glances with Farkas, who nodded. “This came to my attention recently after Farkas here overheard a conversation between Ria and Korli. This is sealed to the Circle.”

            His words stilled everyone. Sealed to the Circle meant that any Companion who spoke of it to an outsider would be forsworn and cast from Jorrvaskr.

            “This _may_ be discussed with the Dragonborn in my presence,” Kodlak continued. “Korli has an excellent grasp of the bigger picture, hence _her_ silence on the subject. Ria’s real name is Akaviria Medea and she is the Emperor’s granddaughter. No matter how this civil war pans out, there will be chaos in Cyrodiil after Titus Mede’s death, which means vulnerability to the Aldmeri Dominion. Ria is the _only_ member of the Imperial lineage with training in warfare and tactics; her father Gaius Maro the Elder’s a security man and her brother Gaius the Younger is the spit out of his sire’s mouth.”

            “So by returning her to Cyrodiil, we protect Skyrim in the long term,” Skjor noted.

            “Yes. Which is why I want to send her back as a full Companion with a Skyforge Steel sword,” Vilkas said. “The Empire and Skyrim will need a peace treaty if Ulfric wins. A Companion-trained Empress…”

            “Do it,” Skjor agreed. “The whelps are asking questions about Irkand’s absences. This might distract them.”

            “Agreed.” Aela followed in her mate’s footsteps.

            “I’m for it,” Farkas confirmed.

            Kodlak nodded. “So be it. Vilkas, you will take her to Dustman’s Cairn.”

            Aela was rubbing her chin. “I’ll take Athis on his Proving too. It’ll make a point to the Stormcloaks that the Companions recognise honour in all races.”

            “An excellent idea, Aela. It will also prove to Ria that we aren’t bending the rules solely for her benefit.” Kodlak coughed and spat out blood. “I think Yngvild in the Pale is a suitable choice. I’ve heard some disturbing rumours about that place recently.”

            Aela winced a little. “The old Shieldmaiden burial ground? Njada would be the better option for that.”

            “Do you have any other suggestions?”

            “Shimmermist Cave’s got rumours of Falmer,” Farkas suggested. “But yeah, sending a Dunmer to Yngvild’s bound to piss the Stormcloaks off.”

            “Very well,” Kodlak sighed. “Speaking of Njada, how far is she off from her Proving?”

            “A month or two,” Skjor reported. “She’s managed to gain control of her temper, if not her surliness.”

            “Torvar?”

            “If he makes it this year, it’s because the other whelps have died at their Provings,” Vilkas said dryly. “His alcoholism isn’t helping him any.”

            Kodlak sighed. “I’ll have a word to Tilma – or Korli. The Dragonborn has proven herself an ally to the Companions.”

            “It would be no bad thing if she became Arch-Mage at the College or even replaced Korir as Jarl,” Skjor observed. Then he sighed. “It’s a shame about Irkand.”

            “Yeah, a shame we didn’t kill him,” Vilkas said bitterly.

            “Don’t start,” Kodlak warned. “Farkas, I need to talk to you in private. This meeting of the Circle is concluded.”

            The Circle scattered and Farkas helped Kodlak to his study, glad it was night and no one was about. Once the old man had sunk into his chair, he sighed and buried his face in his hands.

            “Harbinger?” Farkas asked in alarm.

            “I’m fine,” Kodlak lied, lifting his weary face. “Farkas, I’ve discovered the source of the beast blood.”

            “Hircine,” Farkas rumbled. “Somebody made a deal with him.”

            “Well, yes,” Kodlak confirmed with a wry smile. “But I’ve discovered the where and the when and the who.”

            The Harbinger leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Several hundred years ago, a Harbinger made a deal with the Glenmoril Coven in northern Falkreath, a region long sacred to Hircine. If they hunted in their lord’s name, they would receive the strength and unity of a wolf-pack. He accepted the bargain, thinking it was temporary.”

            “But it wasn’t.”

            “No, it wasn’t.” Kodlak’s eyes were grim. “I’m asking you to hunt down the Hagravens and bring me back at least three heads – one for you, one for Vilkas and one for myself.”

            Farkas sucked in his breath sharply. “On my own?”

            “On your own. It must be soon. I won’t live out the moon.” Kodlak slumped back in his chair.

            “Three old women – okay, old women with claws and fireballs,” Farkas continued. “There’s no _honour_ in that, Kodlak.”

            “No, there isn’t,” the Harbinger agreed. “And do you know why?”

            “You reckon it’s okay because they tricked the Circle ages ago.”

            Kodlak shook his head sadly. “No, Farkas. I’m asking you to do this because you’ll be Harbinger after me. And to guide the Companions to honour, you must know what _dishonour_ is.”

            “Are you shitting me?” Farkas demanded.

            “Ysgramor was the father of the Nords. He was also a brutal genocidal tyrant.” Kodlak’s voice was soft. “You must understand both sides of honour if you’d be Harbinger, Farkas.”

            “Maybe I don’t wanna be Harbinger,” he protested. “How can I go to Korli and say, ‘Hey, love, I killed a bunch of old women and they made me Harbinger for it’?”

            Kodlak’s smile was sad. “If Korli had joined us, _she_ would have been Harbinger because she understands the depths of dishonour. She’s _been_ a nithing and a coward – and in many ways, she’s still one. She runs away from many of her problems and refused to accept responsibility for Irkand when I asked her to.”

            “She didn’t owe that murderer or the Blades shit,” Farkas growled. “She went to Winterhold ‘cause you asked her to.”

            “Yes, she did. Her presence there is necessary.” Kodlak sighed and looked away. “I can’t order you in this, Farkas. If you can’t do it, I’ll give the task to Athis. I would just prefer that the executioner know the full reasons why.”

            The Companion left the Harbinger’s study without a word. How could Kodlak ask this of him? Of anyone? Was this the price of a cure?

            Did the Harbinger really have to be dishonourable? He wasn’t Ysgramor; he didn’t see why he had to be like the founder of Skyrim.

            If he did this, he’d do it on his terms, not Kodlak’s.

…

Vilkas looked over his shoulder at Ria, swathed in a plain wool cloak, as they climbed the cairn. “How are you doing?” he asked.

            “Fine,” she replied with a smile. “It was kind of you to do this before I went home.”

            “You deserve it.” He sighed and looked ahead. “Returning a shard of Wuuthrad is a sacred duty, Ria. Few Companions have this honour.”

            “I know,” she said softly. “I wish I didn’t have to leave but…”

            “Ulfric would use you as a hostage,” Vilkas finished bluntly. “I think Korli told you to leave because of that.”

            “Yeah. I’m not surprised she joined the Stormcloaks, if only by approval. Her maternal family are real pieces of work but they’ve got nothing on the way Grandfather treated her.” They climbed into the cairn. “I’m glad she’s Dragonborn instead of that sociopath Irkand.”

            “That makes two of us.”

            They entered the tomb, raised for some past member of the Circle, and Vilkas immediately saw signs of excavation. “Be careful,” he warned softly. “Someone’s here.”

            Ten minutes later, he was surrounded by members of the Silver Hand with Ria trapped behind thick rusty bars. “Well, well, dog,” sneered an orc nastily. “Your hide’s going to make for a fine cloak.”

            Vilkas could feel the beast blood pulsing under his skin, the wolf howling to be released, but he chose instead to draw his greatsword. If he died today, he would die as a man, even if he went to Hircine’s hunting grounds. “I won’t give you the satisfaction,” he growled. “Come and face me, you cowards.”

            An unseen fighter shot him with a crossbow bolt. Vilkas roared in pain and charged forward, taking the stunned orc’s head off with a single blow. His backstroke removed another Hand warrior’s arm – sloppy, none of them knew how to fight in concert – and he just avoided the silver sword of the third.

            The crossbowman shot him again, this time in the thigh. The Companion stumbled but hung onto his sword. He blocked another blow and then smashed the pommel of his weapon into the warrior’s stomach. She folded over, gasping for breath, and he ignored the pain of the silver in his flesh to snap her neck. Of the Companions, Vilkas had studied the art of combat in all its forms.

            Stumbling, he ran for the lever, yanking it back just as the third bolt took him in the back. He roared with pain and turned around, seeing a sharp-faced blonde Breton approach, drawing a katana.

            “It’s nothing personal,” Delphine from Riverwood said as she lifted her weapon. “But you Companions are a little too convenient for the Dragonborn to rely on. When she discovers the truth of you, she’ll have to turn to the Blades.”

            Vilkas could still shift despite the silver bolts in him. He could tear this bitch apart with tooth and claw. He could-

            Ria’s gladius cleaved Delphine’s head in two. As the Breton collapsed, she rushed to Vilkas’ side, healing potion in hand.

            The Companion smiled, blood in his mouth, and let the darkness take him. She would make a good Companion and better Empress.


	5. The Alik'r

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. Referencing the Kids Are Alright SSE/Prince and Pauper mods for Babette’s look. Also, yeah, the quest Dark Ancestor says Vighar but meh, I didn’t know this when I named the Master Vampire Balgeir.

 

Astrid allowed Irkand to store his things in a chest and grab some bread – for a vampire, Babette was a fine cook – before approaching him. “Gabrielle’s setting the next part of the job in motion,” she said quietly, referring to the absent Dunmer sorceress. “Because we’ve got everyone working on this, we’ve been letting the smaller jobs go. Do you mind handling them?”

            “I feel like a sculptor being asked to chip flagstones,” Irkand said dryly. “I’m sure your people are skilled, Astrid, but aside from Veezara and Babette, none of you have the kind of intense formal training I’ve had.”

            The beautiful Nord rolled her eyes. “No one in our Family is too good to do the chores, Irkand. But if you don’t want the pocket money, don’t take the jobs.”

            “It’s never been about money for me,” Irkand said softly. “It’s the skill and thrill of the hunt.”

            “Then get creative,” Astrid suggested dryly. “For instance, we have a vampire named Hern on the list. His mate might get involved too. Can’t you think of something you can do with two bloodsuckers?”

            Irkand sighed. “Fine, fine, I’ll take the jobs. I’m still insulted though.”

            “Get over yourself, pup.” Astrid’s werewolf husband Arnbjorn loomed from the shadows. “Astrid is mistress of this Family and you should mind her.”

            Irkand wanted to bare his teeth at the mangy mongrel. Arnbjorn had no skill nor class as a werewolf. He just killed and ate everything that attracted his ire. Barbarian mutt. But Irkand had to mind his manners for the nonce – until he was better established around here, though.

            “Is this going to be a werewolf pissing match?” Astrid asked mildly.

            “No,” Irkand answered just as mildly. _Not yet._

“Then get some rest. Hern and his mate are at Half-Moon Mill a half-day’s walk away. So best to go there during the day when they’re sluggish.” Astrid examined her manicured fingernails. “The pay will be worth it. I promise.”

            Grumbling, Irkand obeyed. It wasn’t the taking orders that chafed him. It was the petty murders he was being assigned. He was very good at what he did. At least the Companions appreciated his skill enough not to attack him.

            His bed was musty furs thrown over straw. Sweet gods, he missed his simple silk pallet and private quarters back at Cloud Ruler Temple. But if he got the chance to strike back at the Empire which betrayed him, he’d willingly endure the discomfort.

…

“…You’re telling me that our resident lumberjacks were both vampires?”

            “Judging by the ashes, aye,” the guard reported nervously. “First that werewolf Lord Bjarni killed and now this. What are we going to do about it, Jarl Siddgeir?”

            “I will handle the matter,” the foppish Jarl said, waving a hand carelessly. “Now begone. You reek.”

            The guard graced Siddgeir with an astonished look before removing himself from the Jarl’s presence. Bjarni, ensconced on the gallery before Steward Nenya’s bedroom, wondered if he could get away with challenging the useless twit now. But no. He had to prove himself worthy to Dengeir of Stuhn before even considering it.

            “Falkreath is a place of death,” Nenya said softly. “Vampires congregate here like…”

            “Flies to shit,” Bjarni said crudely. “I’m not saying the Hold is shit, but you know what I mean.”

            “I do.” The Altmer rubbed her large eyes wearily. “I’ve made some discreet queries with the Companions and the College.”

            “And?”

            “One’s recently ejected one member of the Circle and another was badly wounded during a Proving, so they really can’t spare anyone for a job like Bloodlet Throne. The other is preoccupied with the Dragonborn and something called the Eye of Magnus, so they don’t have any battlemages to spare.”

            Bjarni used a word that an Orcish sellsword he met in Windhelm taught him.

            “You should deepen your gutturals,” Nenya chided.

            The youth grunted. “Speaking of Orcs, are there any strongholds in the Hold? There’s usually a spare son or two wanting to be sellswords.”

            Nenya shook her head. “No, only two bandit clans – one at Cracked Tusk Keep and the other at Bilgegulch Mine. The nearest stronghold is Dushnik Yal in the Reach.”

            “So much for that idea,” Bjarni muttered. “My ancestor is proving to be a pain in the arse.”

            “I knew Balgeir briefly,” Nenya admitted. “If you’ll pardon the crudity, ‘pain in the arse’ doesn’t quite cover it.”

            Bjarni grinned at the Altmer. “You need to extend the ‘r’ a little more.”

            She snorted. “Very mature, Bjarni.”

            The moment of levity passed. “Siddgeir will run this Hold into the ground by spring if I don’t act,” he finally said.

            “I know,” she sighed.

            “But I have to kill a keep full of vampires to prove myself to Grandfather and earn his blessing.” Bjarni studied his hands. “I’m not a hero of legend to singlehandedly assault a fortress.”

            Nenya shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to do. Maybe check the inn to see if there are any mercenaries around? I’ve heard there’s some Alik’r in Skyrim.”

            Bjarni leaned over and pecked her golden cheek. “You’re a genius. And I think I know how to get them to help me out.”

…

Cirroc ibn Rustem was the youngest of Kematu’s Alik’r warband – and the one who was as popular as an Altmer at a Talos shrine with his illustrious leader. They were here to hunt down traitors to Hammerfell – Iman al-Sura and Lu’ah al-Skaven – but he mostly wanted to test himself against something he hadn’t killed in Hammerfell. Eighteen and he was already the premier duelist in Dragonstar and a trainee Sword-Saint.

            He wished his grandfather Beroc was here. But one couldn’t start the path to becoming Ansei under the teaching of one’s kin. So he was stuck with this idiot and digging the privy hole because he was a Forebear in a warband full of Crowns and Lhotunics.

            “Alik’r, are you looking for work?”

            The question, delivered in a resonant baritone that was too deep for the lightly bearded Nord youth that addressed them, drew Cirroc from his dark reveries. Alik’r often financed their duties by some mercenary work. This lad, burly and wearing elaborate white leather armour with a snarling bear’s face, might even have the coin to hire one or two of them. Cirroc noted the half-healed scars on his bare arms.

            “Depends,” Kematu said. “We are on an important mission.”

            “Oh?” The Nord folded his arms. “My name is Bjarni Sigdrifasson. I have some vampires that need killing and the entertainment is so great that, like a good host, I wish to share it with some competent swordsmen.”

            Cirroc had to chuckle at the novel approach. Then he studied the Nord a little more. Coarse brownish-black hair, eyes the pale blue-green of a rock warbler’s egg. Wasn’t his father married to a Nord from Falkreath at some point?

            “You couldn’t afford all of us for vampires,” Kematu said bluntly.

            “No doubt. I need just one or two good men. I have some skill in combat myself.” He rested his hand on the Akaviri katana at his waist. Ballsy of him to wear that, given the Thalmor’s interest in murdering anyone who owned one because they might be Blades.

            Kematu’s snort said plenty and Bjarni frowned. “I thought Redguards loved a challenge?”

            The Forebear smirked. “Precisely. You don’t look like a challenge.”

            “A wager.” Bjarni’s voice was mild. “Me against one of your Alik’r. I win, that Alik’r fights for me. I lose, I assist you in your mission as best I am able.”

            Kematu looked at Cirroc and then back at Bjarni, still smirking. “Cirroc, I have an opponent worthy of your skill. Try not to cut yourself on your swords, boys.”

            “Eat shit and die screaming of a festering belly wound, you Crown prick,” Cirroc said in Akaviri calmly. The advantage of a Blades father was learning new and exotic languages to swear in.

            “What did you just say?” Kematu asked.

            “I just said, ‘It will be my honour to match swords with the first real opponent I’ve met since Dragonstar’,” Cirroc said with a grin.

            The Crown glared. “I hope you get your arse kicked, you little Forebear shit, and the vampires drain you dry.”

            “Lovely,” Bjarni said dryly. “Shall we go outside, Cirroc?”

            The Redguard rose to his feet. “A question, before we duel – are you the Stormsword’s kin?”

            Bjarni’s thick eyebrows rose. “I am,” he said a touch warily.

            “Heh. My father was married to her at one point, I think.”

            The Nord’s eyebrows hit his hairline almost. “Rustem Aurelius is your father? Sweet Talos titty-fucking Dibella.”

            “Bjarni! Language!” snapped an older balding Nord in fine green wool.

            The youth flushed. “Sorry, Grandfather.”

            “Forgiven.” Sigdrifa’s father – he had the same turquoise eyes – studied Cirroc. “So Rustem survived. Did anyone actually _die_ at Cloud Ruler Temple?”

            “I don’t know,” Cirroc said carefully. “My father was in Hammerfell, sir.”

            The old man grunted. “I can’t kick Rustem’s arse for the way he treated my daughter, so Bjarni giving you a lesson’s the best I can get.”

            “You and my maternal grandfather would get on great, sir, because Beroc doesn’t think much of Rustem either.”

            His smile was frosty. “I like this Beroc already.”

            The tavern crowd followed them outside and Cirroc began to stretch. He was impressed by Bjarni doing his own warm-up exercises. But then, if he was the Stormsword’s son, he’d be a skilled warrior. This might even be a challenge.

            Cirroc drew his shamshir, a rarer weapon than the omnipresent scimitar. Any Redguard idiot could wield a scimitar but the shorter sword was a more difficult weapon to master. Interesting that Bjarni used a katana though, holding it like the two-handed dai-katana. Probably used to a greatsword.

            Once they were warmed up, both youths stepped into the loose circle formed by the crowd. Sigdrifa’s father, obviously a man of rank, sliced the air with his hand and said, “Begin.”

            Cirroc feinted to the left before striking at a downwards right angle but Bjarni’s katana met the shamshir, blue-white sparks flying where he forced the lighter weapon towards the earth. The Redguard pulled his sword out of the bind before it could be trapped and the Nord nodded in appreciation of his skill.

            He’d always been taught that Nords preferred great sweeping blows that took advantage of their height, muscle and solid weapons. Bjarni switched from two hands to one on the katana, the quicksilver blade moving from blow to block easily, and for all his apparent bulk he moved quickly. Cirroc parried or dodged all his blows though, while the Nord preferred to simply absorb the shock of the Redguard’s blows by parrying them.

            About halfway through the bout, Cirroc realised that despite the fluidity of the katana, Bjarni was working with a set of six blows and three blocks. He began to follow the patterns and when the opportunity presented itself, he curled the shamshir around the katana and disarmed the youth. For someone a few years younger than him, Bjarni was good – and he didn’t need to make enemies by injuring him.

            Bjarni’s response startled Cirroc, who’d been expecting a yield – the Nord surged forward and before he could react, he wrapped one gauntleted fist around the shamshir and yanked it out of the Redguard’s hand. The other fist punched at his throat, stopping just before the vulnerable cartilage with vicious-looking iron spikes touching the skin.

            “You rely too much on that sword,” he rumbled. “How much combat have you seen?”

            “I’ve fought in twenty duels and gone on six great hunts,” Cirroc responded, slightly offended at the implications.

            “I’ve killed an ice wraith, several bandits and a werewolf,” Bjarni said simply. “I hunted the White Stag of Hircine and defeated all of His hunters to gain the Saviour’s Hide. I carry the Oathblade of Acilius Bolar, katana-master of the Blades and the last survivor of Cloud Ruler Temple. And I am almost sixteen.”

            Kematu burst out laughing as Cirroc flushed. “You got your arse kicked by a stripling Nord, Forebear!”

            “Are all Crowns like him or is he just extra obnoxious for his kind?” Bjarni asked, jerking a thumb at the amused Alik’r.

            “Most of them have a little more class,” Cirroc said sourly. Then he sighed. “My sword is yours until we face these vampires.”

            “And it’s much appreciated,” Bjarni said, picking up the shamshir and offering it hilt-first.

            Cirroc took the sword with another sigh. Humble pie tasted like shit. At least Bjarni was a warrior worthy of the name. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Father says your mother kicked his arse during their first duel.”

            “Mother probably cheated,” Bjarni said dryly. “Shieldmaidens have a little more flexibility than most Nord warriors.”

            “I see you have no illusions about your family,” Cirroc noted. “Is, uh, the Stormsword going to be pissed a son of Rustem’s here?”

            “Not likely.” Bjarni picked up his katana and wiped it on his cloak before sheathing it. “Besides, you are clan by association. Our sister Aurelia Korlaina, who we call Korli Broken-Blade, is the Dragonborn and the last of the Septims until you showed up.”

            “Er, wait, what?” Cirroc gawped at Bjarni.

            “You’re a Septim. Huh, don’t know how you’d put in Yokudan-“

            “Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Septimi,” muttered T’roc, the Priest of Tu’whacca who served the Alik’r.

            “What he said,” Bjarni said wryly. “Her Septim blood comes from her father’s, who’s yours. That makes you a Septim.”

            “No, it doesn’t. I am a Redguard and apprentice Sword-Saint, an Alik’r of Hammerfell,” Cirroc said softly. “Just because my ancestor was a man who had to cheat to conquer my people doesn’t make me a Septim.”

            “It does to the Nords,” Bjarni said quietly. “And Talos is a God.”

            “He’s an arsehole, that’s what He is,” Cirroc snapped in reply.

            “Korli said something very similar,” Bjarni observed with a sigh. “You will meet her, I think. She’s in and out of Whiterun all the time, comes through Windhelm a lot. She has the heaviest burden of all, for she must face Alduin World-Eater.”

            “It’s good to know I have kin in this land but I am a Redguard of Hammerfell,” Cirroc told the Nord softly. “My allegiance is to the Alik’r first.”

            “As it should be,” Sigdrifa’s father said. “Still can’t believe Arius wasn’t lying about that. Your father – no offence, boy – didn’t really show much of a talent for anything other than adultery and whining.”

            “He’s still good at that,” T’roc observed dryly. “Cirroc was raised mostly by my kinsman Beroc.”

            “As I said, I like this Beroc and we’ve never met.” The old Nord strode forth and placed a hand on Cirroc’s shoulder. “I’m Dengeir of Stuhn and you look like a good lad. If you help Bjarni kill these vampires, you can consider yourself part of the clan.”

            “He’s already part of the clan!” Bjarni protested.

            “Your mother may feel otherwise. She’s still bitter.” Dengeir sighed and looked at the other Alik’r. “Feel free to stay until Cirroc’s done.”

            Kematu shook his head. “Our mission takes precedence. Cirroc, meet us in Whiterun.”

            He strode off and most of the Alik’r followed but for T’roc. “Fighting vampires is something my religious order specialises in,” the priest said. “I’ll give you two some tips.”

            “You won’t help us?” Bjarni asked.

            “No. You wagered for one warrior and you’ve got one warrior.” T’roc grinned, showing his silver tooth. “Besides, if I came along, I’d take all the challenge out of it.”

            Cirroc looked longingly over his shoulder at the path that led back to Hammerfell. By HoonDing, he almost wished he’d never come here.

           


	6. Accusations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, desecration of the dead and criminal acts.

 

Irkand finally received his mission and he had to admit the time he killed with the little murders was worth it.

            Titus Mede II was coming to Skyrim and to that end, the Penitus Oculatus had been dispatched to prepare the way. Penned in by the Stormcloaks’ conquering Whiterun and fighting in Morthal, they were posted at Dragon Bridge, which gave easy access to the two major holds still controlled by the Legion. Gaius Maro the Elder was commander of the Imperial bodyguard; a sleek politician with some military skill who happened to be Mede’s bastard son. Gaius Maro the Younger, his eldest offspring, was put in charge of making security arrangements. He was also _just_ outside of the Imperial succession in favour of his half-sister Akaviria Medea by dint of her being the granddaughter of the last Count of Bruma and therefore the heiress to the battered county.

            In short, the kind of young ambitious brat who could be framed for treason. Making a deal with Ulfric Stormcloak that allowed independence for Skyrim in return for the Legion returning home under Gaius’ command and therefore giving him enough force to sway the succession in his favour was plausible. Sigdrifa would certainly arrange – and keep her end – of a bargain like that.

            The deal was that he had to die in Markarth or Solitude and a letter in Sigdrifa’s handwriting – which Astrid had several examples of – planted on him. Irkand chose Markarth to avoid questions – and Penitus Oculatus who would remember him – in Solitude.

            He walked into Markarth and saw a Forsworn fanatic murder an Imperial woman in front of a Redguard jeweller. They weren’t kidding when they said blood and silver flowed through the waterfalls of the Dwemer-built city. Then a Breton with Forsworn tattoos slipped a note to him in the aftermath. Irkand read it and tossed it away. He had no time for local politics and even less so for going to the Temple of Talos.

            Gaius Junior arrived a day later. Babette’s thievery was impressive, the little crimson-pigtailed vampire stealing the schedule a few days ago. Irkand had long ago mastered a few small useful spells for situations like this and so he had Fury prepared. When Maro was in sight down the hill near the gate, Irkand leaned over the bridge and cast Fury.

            It hit a pigeon. Which promptly attacked him. Getting chased around Markarth by flocks of the wretched flying pests and being laughed at by Nords and Reachfolk was not an amusing experience. In the chaos, at least, he managed to close in with Gaius and plant the letter on him. Death could come later. Or perhaps-

            A good assassin improvised. Irkand, after washing pigeon shit from his body, changed into fine but nondescript clothing and visited the local bard’s house. Someone who still called himself a skald was likely a Talos worshipper in Irkand’s experience. Sure enough, there was a hidden Amulet of Talos that Irkand purloined.

            The next part of the job was trickier. Irkand had to find a patsy to report a Talos worshipper to the local Thalmor Justicar. Finally, the drunk beggar Degaine agreed to do it for a bottle of mead. Pathetic.

            Now, investigation was a little more rigorous in Markarth because Ondolemar was an actual professional. Irkand admired the mer’s skills even as he despised him on a personal level. That was where a few dropped hints (and a Daedra’s heart) to Moth the Orcish blacksmith came in. Degaine was a drunk but Moth was a respected friend of the Silver-Bloods and the Jarl’s personal blacksmith.

            Gaius Maro the Younger (assisted by a needle dipped in Frenzy poison) resisted arrest when the Thalmor came for him shortly before bedtime. In the resulting berserker rage, he was sadly cut down and the letter found.

            Irkand gladly left Markarth and met Astrid at Old Hroldan Inn as requested. He even courteously opened the door for Nazir, his tail, as Redguards came in and out of the Reach all the time.

            “Well, I’ll be damned,” Nazir told the Speaker. “Irkand’s actually as good as he claims to be.”

            “You’re too kind,” Irkand said mildly.

            Astrid gave a long low chuckle. “Marvellous work, both of you.”

            “Both of us?” Irkand asked.

            “Nazir wasn’t just checking on you. He had a job of his own.” Astrid smiled and patted the chair beside her. Irkand sat down, intrigued despite himself.

            “What if I told you the famous Gourmet was… an Orc?” Nazir asked amusedly.

            “I’d call bullshit,” Irkand observed.

            “Well, it’s true. Balagrog gro-Nolob,” Nazir replied. “I killed the informant, of course, and planted a letter in Sigdrifa Stormsword’s handwriting ordering him to poison all the Imperial lackeys. I don’t have Irkand’s skill in Fury.”

            “Fuck you,” Irkand retorted flatly.

            “Thanks, but no.” Nazir smirked. “Shame you couldn’t weaponise those pigeons.”

            Astrid laughed. “Oh, delicious! Speaking of which, Irkand, I hope you don’t mind a trip to the Pale.”

            “I would. But you’re going to make me suffer regardless,” Irkand said sourly.

            “Yes.” She learned across and murmured, “You get to kill the Gourmet and steal his Writ of Passage.”

            “And how, pray tell, does that help me in my quest for vengeance?” he asked as quietly.

            “Because as the Gourmet you’re going to kill Titus Mede II.”

            Astrid’s grand plan finally crystallised for Irkand. He began to grin broadly. “I do consider myself a decent cook.”

            “Wonderful. Because this is going to be a meal no one will forget.”

…

Sigdrifa was going through the final plans for the securement of Morthal when Ulfric himself arrived, face tight with anger. “We need to talk,” he told her flatly. One look at his expression had her commanders hastily excuse themselves.

            _He’s found out about Vignar,_ she thought grimly. Her hand twitched, ready to call lightning that would sap his Thu’um. If Ulfric, much as she cared for him, wanted to kill her – she’d make it difficult.

            “You didn’t tell me you’d cut a deal with the Emperor’s grandson to remove the Legions from Skyrim,” her husband said tightly.

            _“What?”_ Sigdrifa couldn’t help the yelp in her voice.

            “You heard me. Oh, and the subversion of the Understone Keep cook to poison Igmund.” Ulfric made a disgusted noise and threw two unsealed letters on her camp desk. “I can forgive a lot of pragmatism from me but this is…”

            She picked up a letter. An impressive forgery and she honestly wished she’d thought to contact the Marei about such a deal. “Ulfric,” she finally said. “Since when I have ever used the word ‘salutations’ in my life?”

            That made her husband pause. “Never,” he admitted grudgingly.

            “Exactly. Now, I’m impressed they’ve managed to acquire my handwriting, but the Dark Brotherhood have every reason to deflect attention from their plans.” She tapped the letter. “If the Penitus Oculatus are distracted by the war, they can’t focus on the endgame. I’m disgusted that I didn’t realise it earlier.”

            She let that sink into her boneheaded and sadly too honourable husband’s head. “Titus Mede,” he said.

            “Yes, dear.” Sigdrifa smirked. “I’m happy to let the Dark Brotherhood keep the Penitus Oculatus distracted while we take Morthal and Falkreath. If they manage to kill the Emperor himself, the Legions will _have_ to withdraw. Though I wouldn’t count on that.”

            Ulfric looked troubled. “Where does Vignar fit in all of this?”

            “Probably an unrelated death,” she informed him. “Olfrid Battle-Born’s friendly with the Thieves’ Guild. Hiring the Dark Brotherhood isn’t so far a step as one might think.”

            He regarded her with those bottle-green eyes. “Irkand killed Vignar and Vittoria Vici.”

            “Of course he did. He’s probably the best assassin they’ve got.” Sigdrifa sighed and shook her head. “Just because we were polite to each other during my marriage to that prick he calls a brother doesn’t mean I won’t stop you piking his head at the gate, love.”

            Ulfric relaxed. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

            “I am what I am. I do wish I’d thought to contact the younger Maro about such an idea,” Sigdrifa admitted wryly. “I fight because I must, Ulfric, but if the Legion withdraws, that’s more men to take on the Thalmor with.”

            Ulfric sighed explosively. “I know, Sigdrifa. It pains me to sit back and know my wife and son take the chances I should be to free Skyrim.”

            “It’s the burden of the High King,” she told him gently. Then she decided to change the subject. “What word from Whiterun and Winterhold?”

            “The Hero-Twin Vilkas was attacked by unknown assailants during a Proving but managed to survive,” Ulfric said, walking over to the sideboard to pour himself some mead. “Ralof’s got the city in hand.”

            “You should make him Jarl,” Sigdrifa said, removing the false letters from the table. She was going to have words with Astrid about this. “I know you’re loyal to your kin but Avulstein’s not Jarl material, Thorald’s missing in action and Olfina’s too hot-headed.”

            Ulfric grunted. “True. And he has the blood connection.”

            “Yes. Marry him to Lydia and it will be strengthened.” She accepted the flagon of mead he handed her. “Make Avulstein the Steward. His taste in females is questionable but he has a keen mind.”

            Ulfric’s mouth quirked to the side. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

            “Someone has to.” She drank from the flagon. “You haven’t mentioned Winterhold.”

            “Something happened there that’s sent Wuunferth and the priests into hysterics but they won’t tell me,” Ulfric finally said. “Your daughter was last seen heading towards Whiterun in the company of a Khajiit, of all things.”

            “J’zargo,” Sigdrifa immediately said. “Talented battlemage. Korli’s probably going to pick up some Companion muscle on the way to wherever she’s heading.”

            “Probably Farkas,” Ulfric observed with a smile. “They’re quite close.”

            Sigdrifa sighed. “Honestly? He’s an idiot.”

            “He’s a decent, honourable Nord,” Ulfric said quietly. “Korlaina is the one child you cannot make plans for. Her nature as Dovahkiin will allow her to subvert it every time.”

            He was the Greybeard. But a fucking glorified mercenary, however honourable? Sigdrifa bit back a sharp retort. She’d deal with the problem of Farkas later.

            She took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m ready to send Arrald’s people to Morthal. Once we control Hjaalmarch, we divide the easiest land-route between the Reach and Haafingar.”

            “Good.” Ulfric grinned. “Galmar’s no doubt wiped out Fort Snowhawk by now.”

            “I sincerely hope so. I also hope Idgrod’s smart enough to give her allegiance to us.”

            Ulfric nodded in agreement. “Aye, I bear the Ravencrone no grudge.”

            “Neither do I.” Sigdrifa drank a little more mead. “It will be rough, Ulfric, but you will be High King of Skyrim.”

            “I care only for Skyrim’s freedom,” he said softly. “I regret the blood that must be shed to make it so.”

            “Eggs and omelettes,” she pointed out. “Now, I have a thought for Dawnstar. Skald’s near as old as my father and not half as smart-“

            She thought of everything because _someone_ had to. Sigdrifa Stormsword was a disciple of Talos, a daughter of Skyrim and a mother fighting for her children. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to make her vision a reality. She hoped Ulfric realised and appreciated that.


	7. Saint of the Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Back to the story! Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, classism and desecration of a corpse. This happens during the Winterhold events in ‘Death and Taxes’. Heljarchen is content from ‘Cutting Floor’ by Arthmoor and not the separate mod ‘Heljarchen Creek’, also by him. For Redguards, I’m borrowing from both Arabic and African weaponry for their swords to give a bit more variety to them.

 

Irkand could only assume the Gourmet was a cook because he completely failed as an Orc. Wishing to give the world-famous chef an honourable death, the Redguard confronted him in the wine cellar of Nightgate Inn, only to watch him cower in disgust. A knife-thrust and it was done, the corpse concealed some extremely dusty kegs. He pocketed the travel writ and removed himself from the inn, the innkeeper too busy with Fultheim – a failed Blade _long_ before Cloud Ruler Temple fell – to notice his departure. The carriage was coming through and Irkand took it to Whiterun. So long as he avoided Jorrvaskr, the Companions should ignore him.

            “The Dragonborn did _what_?” a steel-armoured carrot-haired female asked of Hulda at the Bannered Mare.

            “Yanked the College of Winterhold and the town together,” Hulda reported. “I heard a Thalmor nearly ended the world too but he was killed by a mighty Nord battlemage named Onmund.”

            “Where’d you hear this?” Jon Battle-Born asked.

            “Farkas. He was there.” That was Njada in the background. She favoured Irkand with a filthy glare but otherwise ignored him. “A Khajiit mage opened the bubble around the College and Onmund killed Ancano but it was Korli Broken-Blade who repaired the chasm and built walls of pure stalhrim around the town.”

            “Talos parted the sea once,” Jon mused. “It makes sense His descendant could move land.”

            “Farkas says that Korli said it was a once-off thing because of this Eye of Magnus and some divine intervention,” Njada added. “She had everyone at the Morthal checkpoint and in Winterhold praying to Talos.”

            “That’s a relief,” the carrot-haired woman observed. “I’d hate to know there were mages running around who could rearrange Skyrim like that.”

            Irkand paid for some bread and a venison steak before taking himself off. So the girl had a legitimate reason to avoid her duties this time. It didn’t change the fact she was averse to fulfilling her destiny.

            Skjor intercepted him near Ysolda’s house. “Easy,” his progenitor said, hands up and open. “I just wanted to give you some bad news before anyone else did.”

            “Your concern for my feelings is touching,” Irkand observed dryly.

            “We had no choice.” Skjor sighed. “Delphine got the bright idea to join the Silver Hand and sic them onto the Companions. She attacked Vilkas on a Proving and died by Ria’s hand.”

            “Why in the name of all that’s holy would she do that?” Irkand asked, aghast. Oh, he could see the ruthless Breton doing it, but the why he couldn’t fathom.

            “Because Korli asks for our help when she needs muscle, Delphine thought she might turn to the Blades if the Companions were dead,” Skjor said bluntly. “We nearly lost Vilkas.”

            “Am I the only one with half a fucking brain around here?” Irkand asked of the air.

            “I don’t know. But keep an eye out for the Silver Hand. Aela and I can’t find their main base and _that_ worries me more than anything else.”

            Irkand growled in aggravation. “Just what I need. Skjor… It may surprise you but there’s a reason why I joined the Dark Brotherhood and not just because I’m good at killing.”

            “Oh?” The older werewolf arched an eyebrow.

            “I have the chance to avenge my family.” Irkand felt his progenitor deserved an explanation after the news and warning.

            “And you’ll burn the world to do it?” Skjor asked before shaking his head. “Don’t answer that, Irkand. I don’t want to know. Just be aware that the Circle isn’t looking to hunt you. Don’t put us in a position where we have to.”

            Irkand smiled thinly. “Don’t get in my way and I won’t have to.”

…

Idgrod Ravencrone regarded Sigdrifa balefully from her place on the Winter-Whorl Throne. “I know what you are, Stormsword,” the old woman quavered. “I know what you have done and what you will do.”

            Sigdrifa sighed. “Will you surrender or not? I have no personal quarrel with you but if you want to be difficult, your head on a pike will settle matters nicely.”

            “I surrender to the High King that will be. Egil will achieve greater honour and glory than you and Ulfric ever shall. Even now, your son Bjarni marches towards the dawn that will pierce through the coming darkness. Your daughter Korlaina will write her name in the stars in a manner that even Talos would be jealous of.”

            “It is the nature of children to outdo their parents,” Ulfric replied calmly. “We accept your surrender, Idgrod, but do we have your allegiance.”

            “I give my allegiance to the High King that will be, Ulfric.” Idgrod’s smile was frosty. “And for you, I offer honest warning.”

            “What is that warning?”

            “Beware the one who has learned _all_ the lessons Talos had to teach.”

            Ulfric frowned. “Why would I have to fear one who has mastered the sacred scriptures of the Hero-God?”

            Idgrod just shook her head. “You will understand too late.”

            The Jarl rose from her throne and knelt painfully. Ulfric placed his hands on her head and murmured the blessing of a High King confirming a Jarl. Sigdrifa wasn’t impressed with how she surrendered – but at least they took Hjaalmarch with light losses.

            Later, she and Ulfric rode back to the Dawnstar muster. With Haafinger flanked on two sides and the Reach hostile territory for the nonce, now would be the true test. What worried Sigdrifa was Rikke’s lack of response. Surely the Dark Brotherhood weren’t wreaking _that_ much damage.

            “I’d like to know where Rikke is,” she finally admitted aloud.

            “That makes two of us,” Ulfric agreed. “What is she planning?”

            “Well, my sources report that Solitude is under lockdown with only those who have travel writs allowed to come and go,” Sigdrifa said. “Istar’s on his own for now.”

            “He is a canny fighter,” Ulfric pointed out.

            “But we can’t help him.” She shrugged. “Still, if he dies because we can’t reinforce him, he’ll take down much of Solitude’s Guard.”

            “How can you be so… cold?” Ulfric asked. “Istar is a good friend.”

            “And you can drink with him in Sovngarde if worst comes to worst,” Sigdrifa countered. “I’m a General, Ulfric. I don’t let sentiment get in the way of my duty.”

            “I’ve noticed,” he said dryly. “But still, we must have some honour.”

            She refrained from rolling her eyes. Honour was decided by the victor. “So how will we deal with the Reach?”

            “Leave it until last,” Ulfric said. “With the resources of all Skyrim, I can burn the Forsworn out of their wretched hills. With Bjarni in the south, Ralof in the east, Idgrod in the northwest and whoever we install at Solitude to the direct north, we’ll be able to stop them from fleeing.”

            “You won’t be keeping Elisif the Fair as Jarl?”

            “Talos, no. If she wasn’t the daughter of the Count of Evermore, I’d pike her head at the gates. But I think exile to High Rock should do the trick.”

            “I suppose. We better pick a candidate for Solitude then.”

            “I was thinking of appointing Torbjorn Shatter-Shield. He knows coin and trade better than I.”

            “He’s also old with one daughter left to him. Better to marry Nilsine to someone appropriate.”

            “Egil’s already declined.” Ulfric sighed. “I think he has his heart set on Njada.”

            “He can have his heart set on whoever he pleases,” Sigdrifa said tartly. “He’ll marry as I tell him and Nilsine’s plenty good for him.”

            “Some of us have a heart, Sigdrifa,” Ulfric rumbled. “And what is wrong with Njada?”

            “She brings _nothing_ that we don’t already have in Galmar. I care for you as a friend, Ulfric, but affection should never manage a betrothal.” Sigdrifa laughed sourly. “Now arranging Korlaina’s marriage will be a headache.”

            “Your daughter can rearrange the bones of the earth,” Ulfric said dryly. “What makes you think you can command her?”

            Sigdrifa regarded him before looking away. Ulfric was being quarrelsome for the sake of it. “She’s certainly not marrying that mangy Companion.”

            “She will do as she pleases. Your daughter _can rewrite fucking reality._ ” Ulfric’s voice thundered subtly. “She fucking turned an Altmer’s bones into acid, Sigdrifa. Wuunferth says she might be the most powerful Alteration mage in the world. When you throw in the Thu’um…”

            He shook his head and kneed his horse into a trot. “You can no more make plans for her than you can a storm.”

            The Stormsword watched her husband leave and said, “Even the storm can be broken if necessary.”

…

“So we have a huscarl, a wannabe Jarl and a trainee Sword-Saint,” Cirroc observed dryly. “And we want to attack a fortress stuffed full of vampires. Whatever the fuck can go wrong?”

            Bjarni had come to the conclusion over the past two days that Cirroc, while supremely skilled, was both naïve and overspecialised. He understood that was how the warrior-priests of the Redguards trained yet the lack of real-world combat experience would get his arse kicked in a battle. Even before his ice wraith hunt at thirteen, the young Nord had been trained in _real_ fighting by Galmar and Ralof, the kind veterans used. Cirroc would either learn those tricks or die.

            Rayya the huscarl was a Kreathling Redguard with tightly braided black hair, chiselled features and a preference for dual-wielding leaf-bladed longswords that Cirroc called _Ida._ She’d attached herself to Bjarni because “Someone has to keep you from dying stupidly.” He could live with that if she didn’t feel the need to critique his technique every time he practiced. The Nine Blocks and Blows worked for most Nords. He didn’t need any more than that.

            Now they sat in Dengeir’s cottage planning their course of attack, such as it was. Runil had promised blessings on their blades in the name of Arkay and T’roc had a few other suggestions. Bjarni hoped Siddgeir didn’t like salt on his food because he’d stolen the whole casket from the Stag Hall to throw over the undead.

            “Plenty,” Rayya said crisply. “But be resolute, fear no sacrifice and surmount every difficulty to win victory.”

            “I don’t need the sayings of Frandar Hunding quoted at me,” Cirroc said flatly.

            “’In the season of life in which I shivered from the Frost's Fall, so did I find myself called upon to cast aside the notions of my destiny that I had deemed true. I left the land of my home to which I did not return for all my future days. Under Satakal's ever-changing influence, the sword-singer must do the same to achieve Mastery of Sacrifice’,” Rayya continued mildly. “The sword must be forged in the fire and the frost, Sword-Saint. You’ve had the fire; now you face the frost.”

            “Are you saying that I must leave Hammerfell forever to achieve mastery?” Cirroc asked in a surly tone.

            “Not necessarily. The land of your _youth_ on the other hand…” The huscarl’s tone was dry.

            “Enough,” Bjarni said. “We go on the morrow. Dallying only sees Siddgeir drain Falkreath further.”

            Rayya inclined her head. “Agreed. On the morrow then, Lord Bjarni.”

            The huscarl stood lithely and exited the cottage, leaving Cirroc staring at her arse until the door closed behind it. “She’s never even _been_ to Hammerfell, let alone trained in the Halls of the Sword-Singers. Who the hell is she to lecture me?”

            “Our sister never saw Skyrim until last summer and is now the Dragonborn,” Bjarni pointed out dryly. “Rayya has what you do not – battle experience. You’d do well to listen to her.”

            Cirroc slumped back in the seat, staring moodily into his cup of water. He was abstemious in habit. Thank Talos he didn’t drink milk. “What’s she like?”

            “Korli?” At Cirroc’s nod, Bjarni pursed his lips. “They call her Broken-Blade and not entirely for the Sword of the Septims. The Empire did a neat trick of removing her ambition. But as several priests have said, the broken blade can still stab the enemy and there is weeping in the halls of the Thalmor for her actions at Winterhold. Elenwen, chief of the Thalmor in Skyrim, will die knowing her son preceded her – turned to acid, my father’s messenger tells me, by Korli in the ruins of Labyrinthian.”

            “Not a warrior then?”

            “When she must be. She fights with spell and sword. When she faces foes beyond her skill, she calls upon the heroes of Jorrvaskr. It’s said that the Hero-Twin Farkas loves her and she him.” Bjarni sighed. “The days of the Septims are gone, even without the oath Korli was forced to swear. She is a good woman for all her background as a tax assessor but… I think if pushed, she will remind those who dare that she is the Dragonborn and no mistaking it.”

            “Thank HoonDing that another Dragonborn won’t be sitting on the Ruby Throne,” Cirroc said fervently. “The last one… Well, the gods raised an Avatar to make Talos earn the right to rule us and when the Empire retreated, that Avatar returned to banish the Altmer from the Alik’r.”

            Bjarni knew Cirroc worshipped the old Yokudan gods and thought scornfully of the Imperial Nine Divines. Talos was a dirty word to him. Fair enough when he came from one of the last nations to be conquered. “She is the Stormcrown but she isn’t Talos. I wonder…”

            “Yeah?” Cirroc shifted in his seat.

            “Most of the Dovahkiinne have been… Avatars, to use the Redguard word… of Shor Dead-Lord or Akatosh Time-Dragon. It is on me my sister may be the Avatar of Kyne Kiss-at-the-End, the Mother of Men, Shor’s warrior-widow and the Queen of the Storm.” At Cirroc’s blank look, Bjarni smiled grimly. “She is the chief goddess of the old ways, the one who leads men to Sovngarde if they are worthy or inhales them at death to be exhaled at birth to prove themselves once more. Birth, death and battle are Her domain and wherever my sister goes, those three follow in her wake.”

            He shook his head to banish the fey mood. Korli was what Korli was. “You should sleep. And dress warm tomorrow. Bloodlet Throne is high in the Jeralls and you aren’t Nord to endure the ice.”

            “Lovely,” Cirroc said sourly as he stood up. “If the vampires don’t kill me, I’m going to freeze to death.”

            “Remember what Rayya said – the sword is forged between fire and frost.”

…

Cirroc was going to freeze to death, far from his home, because he lost a fight to a Nord who was already building himself a legend. He trudged through the snow behind Rayya and Bjarni, all three swathed in white furs for some camouflage, and wished T’roc had come along. Kematu and the rest had already gone on to Whiterun to search for Iman al-Sura. Crown prick.

            Bjarni had managed to find a fourth for their party – the archer Angi, an exile from Helgen for killing two Legionnaires. They’d met her on the way to Bloodlet Throne and the Nord eagerly agreed to test her bow against the legendary Balgeir the Bloody. Nords had to have dramatic names for everything.

            _Sigdrifa Stormsword, Korli Broken-Blade, Ulfric Stormcloak, Galmar Stone-Fist, Njada Stone-arm, Ralof Storm-Hammer…_ The Redguards preferred patronymics or matronymics to honour-names unless you were a legendary hero, an Avatar or an actual fucking god. _Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Septimi._ His father spoke little of his ancestry, preferring to let his naginata do the talking. That was when he wasn’t drinking or wenching.

            Cirroc was a Redguard and Sword-Saint who just happened to have some highly inconvenient and asshole relatives.

            It was Angi who scored the first kills, her recurved laminate bow taking out the two thralled sentries at the gates before Cirroc even realised they were there. “Nice shot,” Rayya said, impressed.

            “Compared to those two Legionnaires, it was nothing,” the Nord replied modestly, with a fetching blush on her cheeks.

            “Hircine would have been impressed by the shots,” Bjarni said calmly. He’d know; he’d spoken to the Prince of the Hunt and wore Saviour’s Hide. Cirroc was surprised that he hadn’t been given an honour-name yet. Or given himself one. “But be prepared; stealth isn’t our best suit here.”

            “I noticed,” Angi said dryly. “Most of you clank like tinkers.”

            She then raised her bow, drew two more iron arrows from the quiver, and shot down the other two sentries. “There. Let me check to see if they have better arrows. I was deer-hunting, not vampire-hunting.”

            “I’m putting that woman in my guard when I’m Jarl,” Bjarni said to no one in particular.

            “Make her Chief Hunter,” Rayya advised. “She’s a huntress, not a guard.”

            Bjarni decided to kick in the door dramatically when a little discretion would have gone down better. The two thralled guards and a vampire in the front room surged forth, only for the Nord to cut them in half with a single strike of his absurdly sharp katana. “Don’t show off!” Rayya snapped. “Quick and clean.”

            Cirroc scored his first kill when a hulking Orc lumbered into the room, his shamshir executing a perfect Franding’s Double-Crested Moon Cut. The body collapsed into three pieces with barely any blood splattered. “Is that quick and clean enough for you?” he asked with a grin.

            Balgeir’s choice of lackeys left much to be desired. Cirroc was expecting more challenge than this. Or maybe it was just that they were little more than random bandits and vampires used to thralled prey. The salt and blessings on their blades probably helped too.

            They reached the throne room at last, where a gaunt Nord with coarse black hair and glowing turquoise eyes lounged on a throne of ice with a bored expression while death hounds tore apart some bandit. Instead of ordering Angi to shoot the oblivious bastard, Bjarni strode forth and bellowed something in Old Atmoran.

            “Fucking Nords,” Rayya and Cirroc said in unison.

            Balgeir replied in the same guttural language and twitched his hand, unleashing the hounds. Bjarni cut the beasts down without breaking a sweat and switched to Tamrielic. “I am Bjarni son of Sigdrifa Stormsword daughter of Dengeir of Stuhn, wearer of Saviour’s Hide and bearer of Bolar’s Oathblade,” he announced. “Face me or be forever known as nithing and coward!”

            “Dengeir lost his two sons to me,” Balgeir rasped with a sigh. “Yet he never sent the daughter. Weak stock, I suppose.”

            “I’d almost like to see you say that to my mother’s face,” Bjarni smirked. “Pity you’ll have to settle for me instead.”

            “You are slightly more impressive than Tirgeir and Halgeir,” Balgeir conceded dryly. “Note I said ‘slightly’, my boy.”

            “Well, _you’re_ slightly more impressive than your minions,” Cirroc said retorted. “Weak stock, I suppose.”

            “A Redguard.” Balgeir rose from his throne, blood writhing around his form. “You will feed my hunger and your corpse serve my-“

            “Are you going to talk all day or actually attack?” Cirroc taunted. “I’ve faced trainee Alik’r with more courage than you.”

            “Are you fucking insane?” Rayya hissed.

            “It’s a duel,” Cirroc muttered under his breath. “And if I know anything, it’s duels.”

            He stepped into the circle formed by the crude arena and made the gesture of taunting that once impressed the crowds of Dragonstar. “Come on then, I don’t have all day!”

            What descended was nightmare incarnate, a stone-skinned monster of bat wings and bloody talons. “I am the progeny of Harkon Volkihar and you will die a painful death!”

            Cirroc batted aside the first swipe of those talons casually. “Better men than you have promised thus and so far failed!”

            “I will not fail!”

            The shamshir left burning wounds in its wake but the vampire’s talons caught in his robes and tore them, leaving shallow bleeding gashes. “You are courageous,” Balgeir noted. “Imagine what you could do with eternity to hone your skills.”

            “I will die first,” Cirroc hissed and parried another blow.

            They traded blows for about ten minutes until Balgeir took to the air, screeching something and pointing at Cirroc’s sword. It rusted in his hand, leaving him weaponless.

_SHITFUCKDAMMITI’MGOINGTODIEINAFUCKINGSNOWYHELLHOLEBECAUSEOFAFUCKINGCROWN!_

“The sword is the self. Its edge is the mind!” Rayya yelled. “Live and die in every moment of battle!”

            He was going to die with a Redguard who’d never seen Hammerfell shrieking Frandar’s Maxims in his ear. Truly the gods had a really fucked up sense of humour.

            Cirroc threw the silver hilt of the shamshir in the descending Balgeir’s face and took pleasure in the vampire’s shriek of pain. Then he closed his eyes and curled the fingers of his right hand as Beroc had so many times, _willing_ the cold and pain to coalesce into a weapon. Even if his spirit sword was shit, he’d like to die as a Sword-Saint with one in his hand.

            _To shed the mantle of fear is to cast it upon your enemy._ He cast side the fear and wish he was back in Hammerfell, time moving like half-frozen honey as he invoked the Red Surge. He felt the wind of Balgeir’s passing as the vampire swooped around for another strike. “A thrust is elegant, and a cut is powerful, but sometimes the right action is a head-butt.”

            He smashed his face into the vampire’s as the monster grappled with him. Pain burst from a broken nose and cut forehead, Balgeir shrieking something in Old Atmoran and releasing him.

            It was the last mistake the vampire ever made. Cirroc’s spirit sword, an elegant nimcha of white-gold light, emerged from his back just before he crumbled into ash. The ethereal weapon vanished, the effort too much for the Redguard to sustain for more than a few heartbeats.

            Bjarni caught him as he fell to his knees. “No dying on us,” the Nord said roughly. “We’ve got to get you back to Falkreath and give you a proper honour-name.”

            “No,” Cirroc mumbled. “Anything but that.”

            “Too late… Cirroc Sword-Saint.”


	8. Promises and Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, and mentions of cannibalism, religious persecution, torture and genocide. Going AU with the Companions questline.

 

Arnbjorn grunted when Irkand relayed the news about the Silver Hand attacking the Companions and no doubt other unaffiliated werewolves minding their own business. They met in the forests of Falkreath just outside the ruins of Helgen, blood splattering the broken scorched stones where Arnbjorn had lunch. A few less bandits in the world, Irkand supposed. “They’ll live or die for all I care,” the silver-haired Nord growled. “They lie to themselves.”

            “Of course they do,” Irkand agreed. “Skjor and Aela are comfortable with what they are but ‘honour’ still holds them back.”

            “And the Hero-Twins are deluded.” Arnbjorn scratched his chin. “Saw Farkas heading towards Glenmoril Cavern up north. Reckon we should pay him a visit?”

            “No,” Irkand sighed. “Not because I like that moron or the fact he’s screwing my niece. It’s because the Companions are being decent enough not to hunt me and I honestly don’t want to have to kill Skjor or Aela.”

            “Your niece has bad taste in men.”

            “You have no idea. Of all the fucking people Akatosh made Dragonborn, it had to be her.”

            Like an experienced hunter, Arnbjorn pounced on that. “You reckon you should have been Dragonborn?”

            “It was believed I would be and I trained for such a duty,” Irkand admitted slowly. If Arnbjorn took that as weakness-

            “Damn. Guess I’d be bitter about that too.” Arnbjorn slapped Irkand’s shoulder sympathetically. “Look at it this way – Sithis is a greater power than Akatosh. Sure, your niece can Shout like a dragon, but the Brotherhood’s killed Dragonborn before. So we’re the greater predators.”

            “I hadn’t looked at it that way,” Irkand admitted.

            “Some of us are trained to be hunters. Others are born to be. You’re both, even if you’re an arrogant dick about it.” Arnbjorn grinned. “That’s okay, packmate. I’ll teach you how to be a proper werewolf.”

            “Only if I can teach you how to bathe,” Irkand drawled. “I know Nords are indifferent to hygiene but I think you’re abusing the privilege.”

            Arnbjorn roared with laughter. “Where the fuck did you find a sense of humour?”

            “Knowing I’m going to have the pleasure of killing Titus Mede II has brightened my outlook on life,” Irkand admitted. “He crucified my father and a good many cousins. I lost many friends thanks to his cowardice, all because he clung to a throne he had no right to.”

            “Your da was a crazy idiot, I gather,” Arnbjorn observed, not without sympathy. “Your brother’s a wenching idiot, according to my sources in Dragonstar. You got a nephew in Falkreath who killed Balgeir the Bloody though. They’re calling him Cirroc Sword-Saint.”

            “No surprise that Rustem survived or that he hasn’t changed his ways,” Irkand sighed. “Who’s Balgeir?”

            “Volkihar vampire. They’ve got bat wings, talons and can fly. A fair match even for us in beast form.”

            “If this Cirroc is a Sword-Saint, he’d be a competent enemy,” Irkand observed mildly. “But he’ll also be an Alik’r fanatic.”

            “Just telling you not all your family are fucked up,” Arnbjorn said. “So, head back to the Sanctuary?”

            Irkand shifted to the beast form. “Race you there.”

…

“I am Farkas of the Companions. I come before you in honesty to ask for a cure for the beast blood.”

            Farkas felt the beady eyes of the Hagraven as she walked awkwardly down the slope towards him. A horrible mingling of bird and crone, there was a deadly power in her eyes and those talons looked nasty. After thinking on what Korli said, he decided to approach each witch – as they all had their own little spaces – and ask them. If they refused, he’d walk away. If they attacked, they died.

            “The Harbinger couldn’t even do his dirty work, hmm?” the Hagraven asked amusedly.

            “This is my task to become the next Harbinger,” Farkas growled. “I don’t want to fight unless you do.”

            “What if we refuse, hmm?”

            “Then I walk away. Can’t speak for the next one who comes though. Probably my brother Vilkas and he’ll just kill you all.” That was how his brother defined honour – killing any enemy of the Companions. He was already itching to attack the Silver Hand.

            “Your Harbinger asked for the power of the wolf, to strengthen individual warriors and make the Circle a pack,” the Hagraven pointed out, pacing around. “Only Hircine can give what he wanted for so little. Kyne’s price would have been far higher.”

            “An eternity in the Hunting Grounds isn’t ‘little’,” Farkas countered. “Besides, got a mate. I want to be clean for her so I know it’s my choice, not the moon-bond’s.”

            “Ah yes, the she-dragon. Talos’ blood but not Talos reborn.” The Hagraven regarded him craftily. “I will give you a cure in return for her promise to never lift sword against the Reach.”

            “I make no vows for Korli,” Farkas replied. “I can’t, even if she wasn’t Dragonborn.”

            “She would if you asked it of her.”

            “Still not doing it. This is my problem, not hers, and the price is mine to pay.”

            The Hagraven’s twisted face was now thoughtful. “A Nord actually willing to pay his own price. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

            “Don’t suppose you’d cure me for the novelty?” Farkas asked wryly.

            She flung her head back and laughed. “I might just do that!”

            Then the laughter died and she grew solemn. “But you are here for three cures, not just the one. The Harbinger sent you to kill us yet you approach us openly, asking us instead of attacking.”

            “Kodlak thinks being Harbinger means you have to know what dishonour is. I don’t like the idea of killing old women in cold blood. Korli told me I should approach you openly. I decided to just go if none of you won’t cure me but don’t want to fight.”

            The Hagraven looked sad. “If more Nords were like you, Farkas of the Companions, there would be much less weeping on both sides. I will offer you the three cures for a price.”

            “What is that price?” he asked simply.

            “That when you become Harbinger, the Companions don’t attack the Forsworn.”

            “That’s fair enough – if your folk don’t attack innocent travellers or merchants.” Farkas held her dark gaze.

            “Do Stormcloaks count as innocent?” she asked dryly.

            “They’re soldiers. If they attack you, it’s fair game.”

            “You are a strange Nord, Farkas. Almost as strange as that mate of yours.” The Hagraven sighed. “I don’t need that brother of yours paying us a visit. Your terms are fair and we agree to them.”

            They shook… hands, he supposed. “So, uh, what will the cure look like?”

            “A mixture of herbs. It… won’t be pretty.” The Hagraven shrugged. “It will eject the wolf soul from you, which must then be slain by another.”

            “Plenty of those who can help.” Farkas watched the Hagraven walk over to the alchemy table, making note of what herbs she pulled out. Canis root (made sense because in Old Colovian ‘canis’ meant dog and wolves were kind of like dogs), charred skeever hide and mudcrab chitin. Simple variation on the disease cure potions. Korli could probably make it easily enough.

            She made it into three vials, which she presented to Farkas. “I’m showing a lot of trust here, Farkas. Don’t betray us.”

            “I have no intentions of doing so,” he promised, pocketing them. “Thank you.”

            “Thank us by not killing our people.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go. You smell like wet dog.”

            “Well, wet bird ain’t better. Thank you.”

            She cackled as he left. When he exited the cavern, he breathed in deep and sighed in relief. He had the cure. He had to trust her.

            Then someone chuckled nastily. “Well, dog. I was looking for a new cloak and you’ll do nicely.”

            Twelve Silver Hand appeared from the forests, silver-alloyed swords drawn. Farkas didn’t even bother waiting for them to get into position; he launched himself at the nearest two, drawing his greatsword as he did so. They died screaming and someone fired a crossbow. Guess Delphine wasn’t the only one with a weapon. He wondered where they got them.

            The Companion rolled and just avoided the silver-tipped bolt, which took out a third Hand. Coming to his knees, he lashed out with the greatsword and cut off a couple legs at the knee, sending two more falling with a scream. He grabbed one and threw her at the knot of four approaching from his left, disrupting their attack.

            A tight spin made the second bolt clip his breastplate with a clang. He took his greatsword in both hands and lunged through a skinny Bosmer. Kicking the body off his sword, he roared at the knot of four with the Battle-Cry, scattering them further.

            Six still able to fight plus the crossbowman. Farkas batted aside a wild blow and kicked the Orc in the balls. He folded and a third crossbow bolt whizzed by his ear. Five to go.

            Five and four ran at him, distracting him while three and two circled around. Farkas paused for a moment, paying for it with vicious slashes to the bicep and breastplate, before lunging through the empty space between four and two. Before they could turn around, he grabbed them by the scruff of the neck – dropping his greatsword – and smashed their heads together with an ugly crack. Five gawked at him, earning a thrown knife to the throat, as three and one backed away warily.

            “Look, uh, if we go and not bother you again, will you let us go?” Three asked.

            “No,” Farkas growled. “You’ve hurt too many people who weren’t werewolves.”

            He heard a twang and dove to the side, the fourth crossbow bolt taking out Three. One screamed and ran into the undergrowth. That left the crossbowman and the injured Silver Hand.

            “Come out and face me,” Farkas offered.

            “I’m not stupid, Companion,” drawled the man who wanted a new werewolf pelt cloak. Farkas turned around carefully, noting the trajectory of the bolts and the direction of his voice. “Your brother didn’t want to die as a wolf either.”

            “I have a cure for it,” Farkas said. “If I share it with you-“

            “I honestly don’t care about werewolves,” continued the crossbowman. “I just like hunting you.”

            Farkas grinned in relief. “Good. Because you’re kind of an arsehole.”

            He ran his sword through a thick pine tree and heard a choked-off cry. He left it there, drew his knife and went around to face the nondescript Nord spitted to the bark like a butterfly in one of those bug collector boxes. “Krev the Skinner,” he hissed, seeing the tattered werewolf mantle the man wore.

            “Finish… it,” Krev begged. “Let me go to Sovngarde.”

            “Nah,” Farkas said, drawing his knife across his forearm. “Give Hircine my regards.”

            Krev screamed once as he was forced to drink the werewolf blood. Farkas reached down for the man’s crossbow, the mongrel’s body warping and twisting in the first change, and fired the silver bolt right through his head. The Silver Hand made a horrible gurgling sound and for good measure, Farkas loaded and riddled his entire body with silver bolts to make sure. Then he made sure of the remaining Silver Hand.

            “You shouldn’t have attacked my brother,” Farkas said as Krev died. “Shouldn’t have attacked me.”

            He picked up the silver swords, tied them into a bundle and left the scene. Let the Hagravens do what they wanted to the corpses.

…

The duel between Siddgeir and Bjarni was a foregone conclusion. Block and a back cut saw the former Jarl’s eyes glaze over with death as his head bounced against the far wall. Ejecting the Legion took a little more, Thorygg Sun-Killer’s people clearing Fort Neugrad with the help of some prisoners who had the distinctive olive-bronze skin and beaky noses of the Colovian Nords. Or Bruma Nords, as they corrected Thorygg acidly.

            “Because we were Imperial citizens, they couldn’t torture us in Cyrodiil,” Janus Break-the-Spear explained as he devoured a haunch of roast goat. “So they dragged us over the border and accused us of aiding the Stormcloaks.”

            “Arseholes,” Bjarni said flatly. “What brought this on?”

            “The murders of half the Emperor’s bloodline and Aurelia Callaina declaring herself the Dragonborn,” Janus said sourly.

            “The latter is actually true,” Bjarni said. “She’s also the last Septim. I saw her draw the Sword of the Septims myself.”

            Janus swallowed some more goat before replying. “She going to take on the Emperor?”

            “No. Korli Broken-Blade was forced to swear on the body of Martin Septim not to go for the Ruby Throne. The metaphysical consequences could be, ah, bad,” Bjarni replied. “The Blades tried to force her and it ended badly for them.”

            “Fucking idiots,” Janus said. “We were loyal to them and they left us to suffer.”

            He set aside the last of the goat’s leg. “Most of us were the civilians who provided arms, armour, food and all those Akaviri goodies the Blades had,” he explained. “We endured the Empire because Arius was a fucking traitor. We just prayed to Talos quietly, yeah?”

            “Yeah.” Bjarni poured him some more mead. “Plenty of space in Skyrim if you’re willing to support the Stormcloaks.”

            “Ulfric ignored us when we asked for his help,” Janus said bitterly. “Change his mind?”

            “I’m the Jarl of Falkreath and Helgen needs rebuilding,” Bjarni replied mildly. “Whoever wants to live in my Hold, so long as they pay their taxes and support me, is welcome.”

            “You look a lot like Sigdrifa,” Janus observed after draining his third cup of mead.

            “She’s my mother. She married Ulfric.”

            “My condolences,” the Bruma Nord said with just a bit of a slur to his speech. Colovians didn’t know how to drink. Bjarni would teach him.

            “Why?”

            “Because she’s the one who betrayed Arius and the northern Colovian clans to the Empire.”


	9. Honour and the Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. Callaina’s garments come from the excellent FurArmorSet mod by Keung. I also recommend Jasper’s Earth Tones version of the Blanket mod by the same author. I love Kodlak but sending the next Harbinger to kill a bunch of people just for a cure is kind of a dick move, so he’s getting called out on that.

 

“Umm, got a gift for you.”

            Korli turned around at Farkas’ words, thick brows drawing together in a slight frown. “That’s sweet of you but is now the time?”

            “Any time’s the time for a gift,” he told her. “Besides, gonna need it where we’re going.”

            They were just gathering the last supplies needed for the trek to Ysgramor’s Tomb. Athis had been put in charge of the whelps while the Circle was gone while Eorlund was trying to figure out a way to get the stalhrim off Jorrvaskr. Finding about Ralof contacting the Silver Hand kind of pissed Farkas off but he didn’t want to start a fight with the Stormcloaks. He was going to kick Irkand’s arse when he saw him next though. It was all on the renegade.

            “Alright…” Korli rubbed her temples. She was thin and exhausted. When they settled this mess, he was going to make sure that she took a few days to rest. Alduin hadn’t started eating the world yet. Maybe he wasn’t quite hungry enough. But if she dropped dead from being tired, they were all screwed.

            He smiled and pulled the bulky package from behind his back. Those snow bear skins in the cellar came in handy and Eorlund was only too happy to make them into something useful. “Hope you like it.”

            She unwrapped the canvas and gasped when she saw the fur hat, mantle, fingerless gloves and boots. “Do you know how much these would be worth in Bruma?” she asked. “I could trade them for a small cottage.”

            “You like it?” Farkas asked anxiously. He’d never given a mate gifts before.

            “It’s wonderful!” Korli embraced him and he rested his chin on her coal-black head. “I’m sorry about before.”

            “What before?” he asked confusedly.

            “Asking if this was the right time to get a gift.”

            “We all got a lot on our minds. You most of all.” He nuzzled her hair. He’d been a werewolf for so long that some gestures were just natural. Korli didn’t seem to mind though. “Glad you’re gonna be Mistress of Jorrvaskr.”

            She chuckled with an edge of sorrow. “It’s going to be the only choice where I have some form of neutrality and independence. Besides, what else was I going to do? Sponge off you all day once I deal with Alduin?”

            “You’re my mate. We take care of each other.” Farkas pushed her against the wall and kissed her forehead, tip of her nose and finally her lips. She tasted like mead and snowberries.

            “Time to move, lovebirds!” Vilkas snapped from the other end of the hall.

            Korli disentangled herself from Farkas, looking at his twin with a sigh. “I think he had feelings for Ria,” she observed.

            “Me too,” he agreed sadly. “But she couldn’t stay and he wouldn’t go.”

            “I know.” She sighed again. “He’s right though. We need to move.”

            For the trip north, she’d changed into a long tunic and loose breeches in the Morthal style, the drab colours designed to hide the muck of the swampy Hold. The snow bear fur looked good against her olive-bronze skin and long black hair though. Farkas decided he was allowed to be a little bit smug about the fact his mate was a gorgeous woman, even if she was indifferent to it.

            “You look like the wolf salivating over a meal,” she said wryly as she picked up his pack and handed it to him.

            “When we got a bit of time, gonna be more than salivating,” he smiled.

            “If you drool on me, you’re sleeping on the floor,” she informed him tartly, picking up her own pack.

            “Love you too,” he growled.

            Her smile was a little bittersweet. “Thank you, Farkas. For everything.”

            She turned and headed for the stairs. Farkas followed her, knowing it was all going to be good.

…

Glyphs glowed around the Dragonborn’s hands as she placed them against the sliding door which provided a quick exit from Nordic tombs. The rock slid open with nary a sound, revealing a winding dark tunnel, and Aela imagined the slightly disapproving gaze of Ysgramor behind them. Tradition was being violated here but… if the Silver Hand were more organised than she and Skjor expected, they would need everyone. Even the shards of Wuuthrad weren’t as important as the living traditions of the Companions.

            Korli let Farkas go first, not from lack of courage but because he was the strongest and best. Aela knew who the next Harbinger would be and it wasn’t her. Vilkas would need to learn it wasn’t him for himself. She let the second Hero-Twin go before her and Korli went after her, closing the door behind her.

            “I don’t like surprises,” the Dragonborn said grimly. “And if the Silver Hand wanted to wipe us out, now would be the time to deal with the Circle. Athis and the whelps could be eliminated as needed after that.”

            “Well, aren’t you the cynic,” Vilkas drawled. Losing the beast blood hadn’t improved his temper any.

            “I’m the realist,” Korli said flatly. “That was how the Empire eliminated the Bruma Rebellions; take out the elite, generally by letting the Thalmor execute the Blades and nobility, and then deal with the rest. Leave a few alive as an example. _I_ was the example.”

            Aela flinched. She remembered Kodlak calling Korli a nithing in front of Farkas. On reflection, the old man had clung to the desire for Sovngarde so long that he, in his way, had become nithing – putting himself above the needs of the pack. And yet here she was, trying to save his soul.

            “What if they attack the whelps?” Farkas rumbled.

            “Whoever’s running the show – and I’m betting it wasn’t that Krev or even Delphine – they know what they’re doing.” She sighed and glanced away. “I’m sorry. We should be thinking of Kodlak.”

            “We should have killed Irkand once we knew he murdered Vignar,” Vilkas said harshly. “He’s betrayed everything we stand for.”

            “You’ve never been a progenitor,” Aela said flatly. “It’s like killing your child.”

            “And then Irkand has committed kinslaughter,” Farkas said. “His actions led to Jarl Ralof getting the Silver Hand in. He has to die, Aela, but not until we’re good and ready.”

            “I hope you’re not referring to Ralof,” Korli said softly. “We can’t fight the Stormcloaks.”

            “Your uncle,” Farkas replied gently. “Sorry, Korli, but we need to stop him. And the Brotherhood.”

            She looked away. “I understand.”

            The big man turned back to the tunnel. “Let’s go.”

            The heroes of old tested their worth as warriors, wraiths who faded into nothingness once defeated, and soon they were in the chamber of the Flame of the Harbingers. Kodlak stood there warming his hands over the blue-violet embers. Aela’s mother told her that the strength of the flame depended on the honour of the Companions; to see it so low broke her heart.

            “We have a cure,” Farkas said, vial in hand. “It works. Me and Vilkas are clean.”

            “Are the Hagravens dead?” Kodlak asked. “They betrayed us.”

            “The Companions fooled themselves looking for a quick route to power,” Farkas replied. “Hagraven said the Harbinger of the time turned to Hircine because Kyne’s price was too high for what he wanted.”

            “And you believe someone who sold their soul to the Daedric Princes?” Kodlak asked.

            “They listened to you, didn’t they?” It was Korli who spoke. “Fuck you, Kodlak Whitemane, for trying to put that sort of task on Farkas’ shoulders. He’s a good man who deserved better.”

            The old Harbinger flinched at the acid of her words but didn’t dispute them. Aela smiled thinly. She loved Kodlak, she really did, but he had a lot to answer for.

            Farkas uncorked the vial. “Vilkas, you kill Kodlak’s wolf spirit.”

            His twin drew his greatsword. “Gladly.”

            Farkas poured the pungent mixture over the Flame and it flared. Kodlak’s spirit rippled as a blood-red wolf with glowing eyes appeared. So did another presence – an antler-crowned man with hulking muscles and a bloody spear.

            “Hircine,” Aela breathed, bowing to the Daedric Prince.

            “Aela the Huntress,” he greeted mildly. “Are the Companions of Jorrvaskr breaking the covenant we made?”

            “Not I,” she said.

            “It’s gonna be a choice,” Farkas explained. “That’s what being a Companion’s all about, making your own choices and finding your own honour.”

            Hircine paused, expression thoughtful. “There’s nothing better than a beast who goes to the hunt willingly. Skjor is a pack leader in My grounds.”

            “And when I die, I’ll gladly join him,” Aela told the Hunt Lord. “But even I have to admit Farkas is right in this. I don’t see the glory of Sovngarde – but they don’t see the glory of the Hunt.”

            The Prince nodded thoughtfully. “I’m not angry or anything. I was just curious. Kodlak belongs to Me by rights though.”

            “He made the choice before he died,” Vilkas said. “But the Silver Hand killed him before he could be cured.”

            “Ah yes, the Silver Hand.” Hircine’s gaze burned with anger now. “I assume you’ll be doing something about them?”

            “They will die,” Farkas promised. “Not for you but for Kodlak, Skjor and Tilma.”

            Hircine sighed. “You are a good hunter, Farkas. I don’t suppose…?”

            “Sorry, Prince of the Man-Beasts, but he’s mine,” Korli said, her Voice edged with the Thu’um.

            “I chose to be clean for my mate,” Farkas agreed. “Didn’t want to find out what happens if beast blood mixes with dragon’s blood and the moon-bond would’ve gone one way. _I_ made the choice in the end.”

            “Dragonborn,” Hircine greeted with a hint of a smile. “Predator of Akatosh’s greatest creations. Blood of the Stormcrown, blood of the Madgoddess and Aspect of the Kiss at the End. Your brother Bjarni wears Saviour’s Hide, you know. I offered to make him a werebear but he’s insufferably Nord.”

            “Prince of the Wild Hunt,” Korli responded with a slight bow of the head. “The best victories are achieved when one earns them fairly, not through unfair advantage.”

            “I always set My hounds after worthy prey, My dear,” Hircine said dryly. “Even Kodlak.”

            Korli took a deep breath. “If I dedicate the hunt of a dovah to You, will You release Kodlak to Sovngarde?”

            “It’s hardly an equal exchange,” Hircine pointed out.

            “Personally, I’d be inclined to let him reap the rewards of the afterlife he deserves,” Korli responded quietly. “But he’s important to my mate, my mate’s brother and Aela.”

            Hircine smiled a little. “A good answer. But you hate hunting your own kind. Is Kodlak worth that?”

            The Dragonborn faltered. Then her shoulders squared. “Dovahhe have a way of announcing their peaceful intentions to each other. If someone’s daft enough to ignore that…”

            “I’ve always wanted a pet dragon,” Hircine said idly. “Done. Kodlak remains here until the dragon is presented to me.”

            The Daedra tossed an amulet of bone and ivory to Korli, who caught it. “Good hunting,” he said before he faded.

            Korli sighed explosively and looked at Kodlak’s spirit. “You’ll have to wait a little longer, Harbinger. There are several things slightly more important than your salvation. Use the time to meditate on what you’ve done.”

            The Harbinger flinched again but said nothing. Aela deliberately avoided looking at him.

            “Dragon or Silver Hand first?” Vilkas asked, voice a little shaky, as he resheathed his greatsword.

            “Silver Hand,” Aela said firmly before looking at Farkas. “That’s if the Harbinger agrees?”

            “Yeah. Don’t like going around Skyrim with them at my back. They also hurt people and need to be stopped.” Farkas rolled his massive shoulders and smiled at Korli. “Thanks, love.”

            “What’s to thank me for? He’s important to you so it’s important to me.” She sighed and hugged herself under the snow bear mantle. “This may even be better for the dragon too. They serve Alduin out of fear and attack me because they’re more scared of him than me.”

            “The World-Eater is so cruel to his fellow dragons?” Vilkas asked in astonishment.

            “With dragons, it’s devour or be devoured. Dominate or be dominated. And hope to Akatosh your vanquisher thinks you’re moderately useful or be eaten body and soul.” She shook her head sadly. “Paarthurnax, Teyfunvahzah and the dragons who joined humanity were just trying to escape that, I think. Kynareth gave breath to _all_ creatures. Even them.”

            She hung Hircine’s amulet around her neck. “Next time we come here, we do it the proper way. Kodlak tried to cut corners and look what it got him.”

            The twins nodded and left the chamber, Vilkas casting a backwards glance at Kodlak’s lonely wraith. The lever would let them out.

            Aela sighed and regarded the Dragonborn. “Thank you.”

            “For what? The Companions have been good to me. I will be Mistress of Jorrvaskr if I survive the battle with Alduin.”

            “You don’t think you’ll survive?”

            “If I remember some of the old tales Esbern told me correctly, Alduin feasts on the souls of heroes in Sovngarde. The World-Eater is bigger than me and anyone else.” Her expression was bleak. “I will fight as if I’ll survive, Aela. But above all things, I’m a realist.”

            She walked out and the Huntress watched her go with sad eyes. All their hopes rested on a worn, weary woman. Hircine give her the strength for the hunt ahead.


	10. To Kill an Empire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and threatened desecration of a corpse. Taking a break from the Companions’ storyline to give you what you all want – the death of Titus Mede. ;) Going AU with the Dark Brotherhood questline. Babette’s appearance comes from The Kids Are Alright and Prince and Pauper mods.

 

“Fucking prima donna,” the Penitus Oculatus guard muttered after Irkand presented the travel writ with a decidedly Breton declaration he was the famous Gourmet. He’d even dressed the part in white tunic, black pants and the fucking floppy hat. Titus Mede would surely be impressed just before he died. “Go on inside. Gianna will be waiting to assist you.”

            Irkand swanned past, ignoring the useless lout. The Penitus Oculatus weren’t a boil on a half-trained Blade’s left arse-cheek.

            The Emperor’s Tower was depressing stonework hung with rich tapestries. He followed his nose to the kitchen, where a round-faced Nibenese woman prepared the basics of the Potage le Manifique. Irkand had a secret ingredient of his own – jarrin root from Stros M’kai courtesy of Astrid. He’d rather paint the walls with Mede’s blood but Babette said he should be a little classier than that.

            “By the Eight!” Gianna gasped. “You’re him!”

            A fan of the Gourmet. Good thing she wouldn’t be disappointed to discover he was an Orc.

            Irkand sniffed appreciatively. “You’ve made a good start on the Potage.”

            Gianna blushed. “Thank you! I just need you to add your special touch.”

            They walked over to the cauldron where the Potage was cooking. “I never would have pegged you for a Redguard,” Gianna said. “I thought Bosmer trained in High Rock because of the complex interplay between meat and spices.”

            “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Irkand said dryly.

            “Oh, forgive me!” Gianna blushed again. “I’m not disappointed. If I’d known how handsome you were, I would have worn my good cook’s hat.”

            “I’m flattered but I am here for business, not pleasure,” Irkand observed mildly. “Now, shall we?”

            Over the next half hour, he had the pleasure of putting in such unlikely ingredients as vampire dust, a gold septim and a sweet roll. When she’d finished tasting, he asked her to get some dried elf’s ear leaves from the darkest corner of the room, and then slipped the jarrin root in. She returned, put the leaves in and went to taste it again, only to be stopped by Irkand. “Only the Emperor may taste this now,” he said. “The Potage le Manifique is tailored to each person it’s made for.”

            “Oh!” Her eyes went round with awe. “So it’s time to serve?”

            Irkand nodded with a smile. “Yes, it is. This will be a meal no one will forget.”

            She dished the Potage into a silver tureen and carried it up to the dining chamber, where an old man in Imperial robes sat with several of Skyrim’s nobility, the Thalmor Ambassador Elenwen – looking rather haggard for some reason – and a stocky Colovian in a General’s uniform. “The Gourmet and his most famous dish – the Potage le Manifique!” Gianna exclaimed.

            The guests politely applauded and Titus Mede smiled. “Wonderful, wonderful!” he said unctuously – most _unlike_ the Emperor. “Let us all enjoy the meal so graciously made for us.”

            Irkand began to edge to the side subtly as Elenwen and some pretty redhead tasted their soup. Jarrin worked quickly and he didn’t want to be around for the aftermath.

            He was at the door when the Emperor’s tone altered, his face shattering into that of a fit middle-aged man who wore a mourning beard. “Catch that man,” Gaius Maro the Elder ordered. “And make sure our guests enjoy their soup.”

            “What?” barked the General – Tullius, Irkand had to assume.

            “You’ve all failed the Empire,” Maro replied flatly. “That we can kill that Thalmor bitch and the traitor Irkand Aurelius is a bonus.”

            Elenwen and the redhead were already blue, choking on their own closed throats, and Irkand swore. The Penitus Oculatus advanced, pushing heads into soup bowls, as Gianna began to cry. One of the agents ran her through. Irkand turned away from the piteous sight, transforming into his werewolf form. Two swipes took care of the door guards and he was on the bridge between the tower and the windmill.

            He saw agents coming from the windmill and jumped into the streets of Solitude, slashing his way through the guard trying to stop him. He made the door that led to the coast and took the stairs faster than anyone could run. He burst out into the road by the side and took the time to devour the two guards stationed there. His power needed to be increased or he wouldn’t survive.

            It would be a long run through the Reach to Falkreath but there would be plenty of Forsworn to devour on the way. Someone knew what was going on. Someone would need to pay dearly for their betrayal.

…

Cicero trundled into Falkreath and found himself accosted by a great and terrible werewolf. “Please don’t eat poor Cicero, mighty Arnbjorn, because Mother would be displeased with you!” he begged while palming his daggers. He hoped it was the werewolf from Astrid’s wretched Sanctuary. A feral mightn’t listen to him otherwise.

            The werewolf shuddered and transformed into a battered, bloody Redguard. “You’re the fucking Keeper?” he blurted.

            “Cicero tends to the Night Mother, yes,” he admitted. “You aren’t Arnbjorn?”

            “Sithis, no! I have better table manners and hygiene.” The Redguard leaned against the wagon’s wall, catching his breath. “I’m Irkand Aurelius. Someone’s betrayed the Brotherhood by compromising my mission to kill Titus Mede. We need to find them.”

            Irkand Aurelius. The legendary Executioner of the Blades himself was a Dark Brother! Cicero danced with glee until the words that followed the revelation sunk in. “Someone within has betrayed us?”

            “Yes.” Irkand’s eyes danced with a feral rage. “I am going to kill them by flaying their skin and eating their still-living heart, then shitting in the chest cavity.”

            Cicero tried not to judge his Dark Siblings for their chosen means of execution. “Perhaps you could wipe yourself with the skin?” he suggested.

            “There’s a thought.” Irkand collected himself. “I hate to suggest this but we need to hurry. How fast can that horse go?”

            “Fast enough,” Cicero said, hopping back into the driver’s seat. “Join us, please!”

            Irkand leapt lightly into the wagon-bed next to the Night Mother’s coffin. “I need to think on who would do such a thing.”

            “Cicero would not be surprised if it was Astrid herself,” the Keeper said craftily. “She ignores the Five Tenets. What other treacheries could she undertake?”

            The werewolf grunted noncommittally. “She’d be a fucking idiot to do so.”

            “Since when have Nords let common sense get in the way of their choices?” Cicero pointed out.

            “…True.” Irkand hunkered down. “So where’s the bloody Listener?”

            Cicero reminded himself that stabbing Irkand for blasphemy was counterproductive when there was frustration in his voice. “The last one died and none have replaced her,” he said sadly. “Cicero does the talking and the stalking, the seeking and the peeking, the spying and the stabbing.”

            “No wonder it’s a shitstorm,” Irkand sighed. “No proper organisation, no proper training…”

            “Precisely. Irkand is a very wise person to see that.”

            “Here’s to hoping someone other than me is the Listener,” the Redguard said. “I’m no leader.”

            They reached the fork of the road that led to Falkreath and Irkand gestured left. Within a few minutes, Cicero felt the heartbeat of a Sanctuary. It faltered, just like the Brotherhood was. “Cicero thinks you would make a good Silencer,” he said. “Your reputation as an assassin precedes you.”

            “I should fucking hope so despite the disaster in Solitude,” he said sourly. “Only good thing about that was I saw that Thalmor bitch Elenwen die.”

            “Every murder has a silver lining,” Cicero said brightly.

            Irkand laughed sourly. “That’s one way to look at it.”

            They arrived at the Sanctuary and Irkand hopped out, helping Cicero wrestle the Night Mother’s sarcophagus out of the wagon. He then slapped the horse’s rump, sending it and the wagon galloping away. “Nowhere to hide it,” he explained.

            “Cicero sees Irkand thinks of everything.”

            Inside the Sanctuary, the sound of arguing voices reached their ears. “Fucking _hell_ , Astrid, you knew it was a trap and you sent one of our best there anyway!”

            “It wasn’t a trap,” the Speaker of the Sanctuary said in her poisoned-honey voice. “All of those people were on the kill list. I just didn’t expect Maro to have anticipated it somehow.”

            “Irkand’s back,” announced a girl’s voice. “There’s someone else with him.”

            Astrid came striding out with a small pigtailed girl in her wake. “You made it!” she said, sounding relieved. “I didn’t know that the Emperor’s body double would be there.”

            “But I was meant to kill the others,” Irkand said far too quietly.

            “Many birds, one stone,” Astrid said. Her eyes flicked to Cicero. “I see the Keeper is here.”

            “Cicero has come with the Night Mother,” the Keeper announced.

            The girlchild was tilting her head in a listening position. “’Darkness rises when silence dies’?” she quoted, brow wrinkling in confusion.

            Cicero stared at her, taking in the crimson hair, the glowing eyes and the Breton-style red velvet dress. No child was this. And Mother had chosen her!

            “What _are_ you babbling about?” Astrid said crossly.

            “’Darkness rises when silence dies’,” the girl repeated firmly. “Astrid, the Night Mother is speaking to me.”

            “Listener!” Cicero danced around the girl and picked her up. Then he put her down because blasphemy. “Uh, sorry, Listener. The Fool of Hearts is so happy!”

            “What.” Astrid’s tone was flat as the others entered the main cavern.

            “It appears Babette is the Listener,” Irkand said mildly, hands resting on his ebony daggers. “Thank Sithis it wasn’t _me_.”

            “Finally!” exclaimed an old Imperial in wizard robes. “I for one welcome the return to tradition.”

            Another Redguard, this one in Alik’r robes, was looking between Astrid and Babette. “What does this mean for us?” he asked practically.

            “We find out who told the Penitus Oculatus what was going on,” Irkand said flatly. “And then I flay them, eat their heart and shit into the chest cavity.”

            “You’ll be doing no such thing!” Astrid snapped. “I’m in charge here-“

            Cicero’s throwing knife appeared of its own accord in her throat, he’d swear it did. Then the big white-haired Nord became a werewolf and Irkand leaped into the fray to protect the Listener as a Silencer should.

            The Argonian, Dunmer, Imperial and Alik’r were all so shocked at the sudden onset of violence that they gaped at the battle. Not that it was much of one because Irkand carved Arnbjorn into a Nordic roast. Then he ate his heart. Cicero thought he might be in love.

            “Enough!” Babette yelled.

            “She blasphemed,” Cicero whined.

            The vampire said something very rude in what sounded like Orcish.

            “Your gutturals need to be deeper,” Irkand said mildly, wiping his blades on Arnbjorn’s furry carcass. “I can only assume since Arnbjorn was so quick to attack me, he and Astrid betrayed us.”

            “Well, you’re not using his chest cavity as a chamber pot,” Babette snapped in reply. Then she sighed. “We’ll bury them as Dark Brothers because there’s no proof and if not for Astrid, none of us would be here.”

            Cicero sighed. “Yes, Listener.”

            “And if anyone attacks anyone without permission from me again, I will show you exactly what I can do,” she continued tartly. “Does anyone else wish to argue with me?”

            “No, Listener,” everyone said in unison.

            “Good. Now, we need to evacuate the Sanctuary. It’s too well known.”

            “Shit,” Irkand muttered. “I got rid of the horse and cart.”

            Babette smiled. “The Night Mother will provide, Irkand. And you will get your chance at Titus Mede. He’s already off the coast of High Rock near Caer Volkihar.”

            Irkand smiled and it was a beautiful sight. Cicero’s heart fluttered. “May I paint the walls with his blood?”

            Babette pouted. “Fine. But we need to get to Dawnstar first. Cicero, that’s where you come in…”

            Cicero was only too happy to obey. The other Siblings were salvageable now that Astrid and Arnbjorn were dead. Babette was Listener and would be for a very long time. Things would be good again. He knew it.

            And the other power with a timeshare arrangement in his head gave a berserker’s grin. Soon She would have vengeance.


	11. The Siege of Windhelm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide, war cimes and religious persecution. You were wondering where Rikke was, no doubt, so here she is.

 

Egil had been managing Windhelm since before his parents left, Jorleif providing valuable advice. He was the last of the clan remaining in the Palace of the Kings and it never occurred to the Thanes to question his rule despite the now-fifteen winters he’d seen. Ulfric commanded and they obeyed. The youth suspected that the absence of his mother played a large part in the folk’s willingness to accept him sitting in front of the Throne of Ysgramor.

            Word of miraculous doings reached him from Winterhold, carried by a plain-faced Nord in a mage’s robes named Onmund. His sister snapped together the three parts of Winterhold like a broken limb and the Thalmor Ancano was cast down by the mages. A Psijic monk advised the Khajiit Arch-Mage, who had no love for the Dominion. The world nearly ended.

            Galmar and Sigdrifa took Morthal as was to be expected. Bjarni’s campaign to become Jarl in Falkreath was successful and he’d already made himself a legend. Egil smiled at that. His brother deserved the glory. Ralof was ruling well in Whiterun despite the disastrous attack on the Companions by werewolf hunters, of all things. His honorary uncle would make a good Jarl.

            The Imperials were getting decimated by a Dark Brother with a suspicious resemblance to Irkand Aurelius. Egil wasn’t sure what to make of that. Assassination was an injustice but it was making the war against the Legion easier. He didn’t like that. The line between justice and injustice should be clear and well-defined.

            It was all too easy. Unless Rikke and half the Legions had deserted, Sigdrifa should have met them in the northern marches now. _Where was the last true Shieldmaiden of Talos and her soldiers?_

Troubled, he went to Wuunferth and asked the court wizard to scry for Imperial soldiers. He saw an injured General Tullius and several Legionnaires fighting the Penitus Oculatus in the streets of Solitude, a Nibenese woman addressing guards in the Pale Pass… and nothing else. “That means two things,” Wuunferth said grimly. “They’re on the salt water or the battlemages are shielding them from scrying.”

            Egil sent guards for Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced and Torbjorn Shatter-Shield. Sigdrifa had once called Rikke her tactical equal and the Stormsword was the Stormcloaks’ greatest general. Whatever she planned, it would come soon and likely involve the East. Why bother hiding otherwise?

…

Rikke had planned to land on the coast of Winterhold, thereby dividing Dawnstar and Windhelm neatly in two, but the walls of stalhrim raised by the Dragonborn had prevented that. The Legate Primus sighed; Callaina would have made a great Empress. But Titus Mede II had destroyed that option and Balgruuf drove her towards the rebels. Now it was up to Rikke to save the Empire and prove her mettle in the doing so.

            So they hauled the skiffs and boats across the ice floes of the northern Sea of Ghosts, every soldier a Nord. Her second was Hadvar, a southern man, and an excellent Legionnaire he was. When she became General, she would make him her Legate Primus. Any ice fishers or horker hunters they came across were given two choices – join or be sent to Sovngarde. Two sons of the Broken-Tusk clan elected to go out fighting, using their ice magics to split the floe and drown a half-dozen Legionnaires before stabbing themselves in the throat with their bone skinning knives. She watched them bleed out before sliding their corpses into the sea. Such courage deserved Sovngarde.

            Someone must have anticipated her plan – or Ulfric was being paranoid – because some Shatter-Shield ships filled the waters directly north of Windhelm. “Drop the mists,” she ordered the battlemages as Legionnaires slid boats into water and boarded them. “Bombard them with fireballs.”

            Torbjorn, always a conservative, had no mages to counter the fireballs and the small fleet was soon ablaze, sailors jumping into the sea. Two of her battlemages, specialists in storm magics, cast Shock spells through the water and killed them all. Rikke’s small boats passed by Shatter-Shield’s burning trade ships and she sighed. Damn Ulfric and Sigdrifa for putting them all in this position.

            Windhelm was in the distance as they rounded the coastal curve. “Take the farms and secure Kynesgrove,” she ordered Hadvar. “Try not to hurt the civilians but if they fight back, give them clean deaths.”

            He saluted and nodded. Good soldier, Hadvar.

            It was an Argonian woman on the docks who first spotted the boats. “Legion!” she shrieked. “Avulstein! Legion!”

            Avulstein Grey-Mane blew a horn warning of coming enemies before chivvying the Argonians towards the gates. “Get inside!” he bellowed. “If the guards deny you, tell them Prince Egil has commanded it!”

            Rikke had counted on the deep racial divisions in Windhelm to do half her work. The Dunmer and Argonians had always done well under the Empire and she’d planned to exploit that. Had Ulfric lost his racism?

            _No, he said Egil,_ she thought grimly as she lifted her hand to halt the battlemages. The more civilians crowded into the city, especially with the racial tensions between Dunmer and Argonian, would mean less food and more trouble for the defenders. She could work with that.

            She knew little on Ulfric’s youngest son beyond his devotion to Stendarr. Surprising Ulfric had allowed him to worship the God of Justice, Righteous Forbearance and Mercy. Or maybe this Egil was defiant of his father. She could work with that.

            Avulstein was the last through the gates, casting Ice Storm and slicking the path up the stairs as he went. Smart – and she didn’t know Grey-Manes were mages.

            She met Hadvar at the bridge. His sword was bloody. “Torsten Cruel-Sea set fire to the last winter crops before we killed him,” the Tribune reported. “One of his Dunmer workers told me that Egil’s been making friends with them, slapping down racists like Rolff Stone-Fist, and even listening to the Argonians.”

            “He’s got Sigdrifa’s brains,” Rikke observed with a sigh. “So we’re in a siege. I want you to take five men and find the Eastmarch and Rift camps, bring every Legionnaire here. We’ll need it.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Hadvar saluted. A good soldier indeed.

            Rikke turned her gaze towards Windhelm’s gates as dusk settled in. Tomorrow, she would parley with this Egil and see what he was made of.

…

Legate Rikke was a tall, well-built Paler with dark hair and stern eyes. Egil had to admit her plan impressed him and was grateful Stendarr granted him the insight to prepare Windhelm beforehand. If his mother had one flaw, it was that she never planned for a loss.

            He squared his shoulders as he stood on the walls and looked down on her. Torsten was dead, burning his storehouses to deny the enemy food, and Kynesgrove captured as Dravynea got a message through to Wuunferth. Boats filled the harbour and soldiers filled the bridge. The ways to Windhelm were blockaded and Rikke had the superior force of battlemages. He had more soldiers though. This would be an even contest.

            “I will save you the trouble of a parley!” he bellowed down to the Legate as she approached under a white flag that looked like Torsten’s favourite tunic. “I know what will happen to me, my brother and the sons of the great clans of Windhelm if you win. You will line the roads to Ysgramor’s city with crosses and stand back as the Thalmor break the spines of Skyrim’s children. You will corrupt those who are weak among us with coin. You will take our daughters and make them hostages and broodmares for the Empire.”

            Rikke scowled. “What in Oblivion are you implying, Egil Ulfricsson?”

            “My sister, the Dragonborn, survived Bruma and told us of what she saw, how the Empire treats rebels. She told us better that me and Bjarni die rather than fall into the hands of Titus Mede.” Egil stared down at the Legate. “You serve a corrupt and dying Empire, Rikke. The Penitus Oculatus has turned on General Tullius in Solitude. Only Haafingar and the Reach remain in Imperial control – and not for long, I imagine.”

            Her jaw set. “My oath is to serve the Septim Empire.”

            “Shame it’s not the Septim Empire but instead Titus Mede’s now,” Egil tossed back. “I won’t be taken alive by you. Until my dying breath, I will fight you. Does that make things clear?”

            She nodded tightly. “It does, Egil.”

            “Then may Stendarr judge of us who is the more righteous.”

…

Shahvee gladly accepted the cup of tea from Avulstein with a smile. He was a good man, this Nord, who cared for her despite the backlash from Ulfric and his commanders. The Empire had allowed her people to be enslaved by the Dunmer for generations; at least the Nords were equal-opportunity bigots who saved the worst of their bile for the mer. Prince Egil had made sure everyone received rations and the warehouses were stocked full for winter. Even Torbjorn’s death was a blessing because his daughter Nilsine relied heavily on Suvaris and Scouts-Many-Marshes to get things done, treating them as partners and not servants.

            The Great Hall of the Palace of the Kings was a cold drafty place, self-important and echoing, but people of many races sat at the tables because Egil gathered them together. It was two weeks into the siege and tempers were getting a little frayed, even with the Dunmer and Argonians being put well apart from each other. Shahvee sipped her tea as Avulstein sat beside her. For some reason, she was at the high table next to Scouts, who was three Nords away from Prince Egil.

            “We must break this siege,” Egil said simply. “Not because I doubt in the righteousness of our cause but because the Empire will seek to break us with atrocities and they have the people of Kynesgrove hostage.”

            “Rikke’s too clever to agree to something like single combat,” Yrsarald pointed out.

            “Of course she is. My mother called her an equal in tactics. The Shieldmaidens have a more flexible sense of honour than most because their final vow comes above all.” Egil paused to let that sink in. “My mother’s own vow is to emulate Talos in all things. Rikke’s is to defend what she deems is the Septim Empire.”

            “They’re certainly living up to it,” Ambarys Rendar observed sardonically.

            “They are,” Egil agreed. “I have no illusions about my mother’s ways of getting things done. But that’s beside the point. Rikke has honour, but it’s a flexible kind, and the Legion shows no mercy to rebels.”

            Shahvee lifted her hand, compelled to speak. “Sir-“

            “You are Avulstein’s lady, aye?” Egil asked.

            “She is,” the Nord said, eyes daring anyone to disagree with the statement.

            “Then call me Egil. Avulstein and I are kin through my father’s mother’s side.” The Prince’s statement set several Stormcloaks to muttering until he glared at them. “What? She is kin. I don’t differentiate between Nord and other until someone proves themselves honourable – or not.”

            “Your father wouldn’t be impressed,” said one hoary old man.

            “My father is in Dawnstar or Morthal. I rule here in his name. If you disagree, challenge me here and now.” Egil’s glare was worthy of the Stormcloak himself, the one time Shahvee had met him.

            The old man backed down and Avulstein laughed. “Didn’t think so,” he said loudly.

            Egil turned back to Shahvee. “Speak, kinswoman. I have heard you’re a woman of good sense.”

            “The Legion holds the bridge, harbour and the docks,” she continued, scales tightening in the Argonian version of a blush. “But there are… ways in and out of the city. If you can breathe water.”

            “What is your suggestion?” Ambarys asked. “The Argonians go out and slaughter the Legion?”

            “No. Most of us can’t fight. But we can destroy the boats and free the harbour.” Avulstein wrapped an arm about her. “I know you Nords don’t like us. But you don’t like anyone who’s not a Nord. The Empire let the Tribunal Dunmer enslave us. I know that much.”

            She very carefully chose to mention the Tribunal, as not to insult Ambarys and his kin. Morrowind had paid for the sins of their ancestors and Rendar had done nothing to the Argonians beyond trying to get them involved in his political rants.

            “You will be in danger once they realise what you’re doing,” Egil said gently.

            “We’ll be in danger regardless,” Scouts chimed in. “But if we do this, we want the same pay and rights as Nord workers.”

            “While I command Windhelm, it will be so,” Egil promised. “And if my father decides otherwise, I will make it so again when I become Jarl. Stendarr be my witness.”

            When a Nord swore by their gods, Shahvee knew they meant that oath. “If we put oil on the boats and the bridge, the Dunmer could set it alight,” she continued. “They too were ruled by the Empire and should fight for a chance at vengeance.”

            Ambarys’ nostrils flared. She’d put him on the spot. “Damn you, boot.”

            It took Egil and Yrsarald to keep Avulstein off the Dunmer. Revyn Sadri regarded his community leader with a subtle cringe while Suvaris Atheron rolled her eyes. “If we do this,” the Shatter-Shields’ factor said, “We want the same rights under law as any Nord: the right to bear weapons, the right to come and go as we please, the right to defend ourselves.”

            “You don’t have them?” Egil asked with some surprise.

            “No.” Suvaris’ tone said plenty.

            “As I said to the Argonians, I say the same to you under oath to Stendarr,” the Prince said simply. “If this works, we will owe you both a great debt.”

            “And if it doesn’t?” Revyn asked.

            “We’re all nailed to crosses and the Legion flag flying over Ysgramor’s Hall.” Egil’s smile was sharp. “So please don’t fail.”

…

The first time that Rikke knew something had gone wrong was when the pungent scent of horker oil reached her nose. Then some of the boats – and the Legionnaires on board – started to burn. Firebolts and fireballs were raining down from the walls of Windhelm, delivered by Dunmer whose worn ridged faces looked demonic in the firelight.

            “Battlemages!” she screamed. “Cast Shock on the walls!”

            The Argonians who’d emerged – no doubt through the sewers – found themselves surrounded by pissed-off Legionnaires. Their leader, a wiry female in leather armour, drew a dagger of what looked like Skyforge Steel. She had to have stolen it. “Retreat!” she hissed.

            The rag-tag group formed a wedge and punched through to the bridge’s sides, jumping off the edge to land in the icy water. They left half their friends behind and Rikke’s chief battlemage cast Lightning after them all the while.

            And then the gates opened to reveal two dozen Dunmer blazing with their Ancestor’s Wrath. They ran through the crowd of Legionnaires, setting puddles of oil alike and laughing off the flames.

            “Archers!” Egil’s deep voice called out over the pandemonium. “Fire at will!”

            “Testudo!” Rikke yelled as Hadvar got the Legionnaires on the bridge around her. She didn’t think that Egil would have the imagination to do a night sortie with this kind of mixed tactics. “Push towards the gates!”

            The arrows slid off the heavy shields as they advanced forth, Rikke’s battlemage casting Ice Storm to quell the flames. The Dunmer were either dead or out of the way. If she could get inside-

            Cold violet-black magic surrounded them as Wuunferth the Unliving demonstrated his talent for necromancy, raising the dead and charred Legionnaires to attack their still-living comrades. Most of her soldiers had never faced the horrors a Conjurer could produce but Hadvar kept them in place, pushing forward. For a worshipper of Stendarr, Egil was pragmatic – or someone else was commanding.

            They made the gates and spilled inside. “Maintain formation!” Rikke yelled. “Move forward to the Palace-“

            More pots of horker oil were broken on the shields and set alight, forcing her squad to drop them, which made them vulnerable to Egil’s archers. Rikke howled the Battle-Cry, driving back a few Stormcloaks – and was answered by the unearthly roar of a thousand angry Eastmarchers issuing their own. For the first time in her life, she quailed – and in the quailing she failed, dropping her sword.

            “Hold fast!” Hadvar yelled. “Hold-“

            He died with an arrow in his throat.

            Egil jumped off the steps, landing lightly in plate armour, and drew his mace. “Make it quick and clean!” he bellowed. “We are better than the Empire!”

            Rikke managed to grab her sword just before the youth engaged her. She kicked at him but he dodged adroitly, circling around her as chaos surrounded them. “You are the last true Shieldmaiden of Talos,” Ulfric’s son said slowly. “Why do you serve Titus Mede after all he’s done?”

            “My oath is to the Empire,” she said simply.

            “The Empire belongs to the Medes now, not the Septims,” Egil reminded her. “You’re on the other side of the war from the last Septim.”

            “So Arius was telling the truth,” Rikke said grimly. “Your mother said otherwise.”

            “She knows the truth of it now.” Egil kept his mace at the ready. Good weapon if not Skyforge Steel.

            “She persuaded Dengeir and the Falkreath First otherwise,” Rikke informed him. “That left Arius and the northern Colovian clans without support.”

            Egil’s face was expressionless. “I see. Raise your sword, Rikke. I would send you to Sovngarde cleanly.”

            She lunged forth and Legion steel clanged against the mace’s haft. “Titus Mede will be worse than I ever will be,” she told him.

            “He will come to a Skyrim ready for him,” Egil retorted. “Assuming the Dark Brotherhood doesn’t get him first.”

            “Some servant of Stendarr _you_ are,” she taunted. “Condoning assassinations-!”

            Egil’s mace took her in the side, crumpling her breastplate and the ribs with it. She dropped to her knees and her sword fell from a nerveless hand.

            “I don’t condone it,” the youth said with a sigh. He knelt, picked up her sword and wrapped the fingers of her other hand around its hilt. “You fought well. Tsun receive-“

            Rikke stabbed him in the gut with the sword before falling into blackness. She had defended the Empire from one of its enemies.


	12. The Purity of Revenge (And the Price You Pay)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of torture and imprisonment. This is the Companions’ roaring rampage of revenge against the Silver Hand chapter.

 

“I found them.”

            Aela’s voice was tight with satisfaction as she entered the Nightgate Inn. Then she wrinkled her nose. “By the gods, what died here?”

            “An Orc,” Vilkas said laconically. “Someone knifed the poor bastard and stuffed him behind the wine barrels. If Korli hadn’t wanted some wine…”

            “Lovely,” Aela said with a grimace. “Well, we found the Silver Hand. They’re laired up at Driftshade Refuge.”

            “That’s not too far from here,” Njada noted. “Hell, not too far from Korvanjund.”

            “What’s Korvanjund and why do we care about it?” Athis asked sourly. He’d taken the news that the Circle had been werewolves poorly but remained out of loyalty. Or the desire for glory. Or to piss off Njada. Farkas could well believe any and all options.

            “It’s where High King Borgas was buried after he died,” Njada retorted. “It’s an important part of Skyrim’s history.”

            Korli, silent since she’d found the Orc’s corpse, stirred. “When we’re done with the Silver Hand, Njada, you and I will go there.”

            “Why?”

            “Because there’s something Egil will need. I don’t know what. But he needs it soon.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry. I can’t figure out more than that.”

            Aela cleared her throat. “We better get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a hard day.”

            Farkas rose to his feet. “Yeah. Gonna make sure the Silver Hand are done for. They’ve hurt too many people for too long.”

            Korli stood up, looking exhausted. Finding the Orc’s corpse had been the kicker on a long day for her. “Let me know when we have to go. I could sleep for days.”

            “You’re gonna,” Farkas said decisively. “The Silver Hand are nasty. Also, this needs to be done with steel, not magic.”

            She sighed. “I feel like I should go with you. You’re my mate.”

            “And you’re mine. But I want you to rest for our dragon hunt.” Farkas smiled warmly at her.

            “If you die, I’m kicking your arse in Sovngarde,” she finally replied.

            “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

…

The two Silver Hand guards never saw what killed them because Aela the Huntress was the best archer in the Companions. They died within moments of each other and the fortress was breached in a minute.

            After that, the heroes of Jorrvaskr faced their enemies openly. Farkas took point with Torvar at his right and Vilkas at his left, Aela and Athis ranging as they pleased to savage foes from the sides, Njada’s shield protecting them from the archers. There were dead and tortured werewolves put out of their misery, the corpses of men and mer in rags stacked up like cordwood in carts, frozen solid by the Pale’s cold. Discovering the Circle were werewolves, little better than beasts, had pissed off Athis; seeing now the atrocities of the Silver Hand, he realised there were worse things in this world than man-beasts. At least the werebeasts wore fur on the outside.

            He barely remembered Vvardenfell. Windhelm and its cold grey streets dominated most of his memories, tagging behind his older brother Aval as the butcher travelled to the main market to sell meat. Aval taught him how to use knives on flesh, learning the weight of iron, steel and quicksilver in the hand, the feel of it as it tore through muscle. Faryl taught him how to swallow his pride in the face of Nord prejudice. Suvaris taught him how to use wit and cunning to get the better of his enemies.

            It was just after Ulfric’s return and rise to power as Jarl of Windhelm that led Athis to leave Ysgramor’s city. Dunmer made great scapegoats for Nords too moronic to tell the difference between high elves and grey elves or learn the long bitter feud between Altmer and Chimer. One fight with Rolff Stone-Fist and Suvaris was putting her little brother on a carriage to Whiterun, the only place they could afford to send him to.

            He threw a throwing spike at a hulking Orc about to split Njada in two from behind, earning a curt nod from the Stone-arm. Daughter of his old nemesis, as harsh and acidic as the Stormsword she idolised. Athis hated her on principle when she joined the Companions two years ago. Now he understood she was his Shield-Sister no matter what.

            Fortune and glory were things he desired, as he told Vilkas – already Arms Master despite his youth – when he signed up. But the idea of pissing in the morning gruel of every Stormcloak alive by becoming a Companion appealed to him more. Maybe it appealed to Vilkas too, because he said, “Even an elf can have the heart of a Nord.”

            Finding out it had been the dying words of a Harbinger who appointed a mer as his successor took a little shine from the acceptance. But in a way, it also confirmed Athis was part of a long tradition.

            They breached the gorge and killed more Silver Hand and werewolves. Once it was done, the Companions stopped for water and a quick bite to eat. Njada’s expression was troubled.

            “What’s wrong?” Athis asked her. It was the duty of a Circle member to check on the whelps.

            “I’m worried about Egil,” she finally said. “Korvanjund is where it’s said old King Borgas was buried with all his treasures. If he needs something from there… He’s in danger.”

            Athis reminded himself that while Ulfric was a blowhard to him, Njada had grown up with his sons. She probably knew and maybe cared for Egil, who was about four years her junior. “If anyone can get what he needs, it’s you and Korli.”

            “You don’t understand.” Njada sighed. “The major treasure buried with Borgas is said to be the old Jagged Crown.”

            “’Maw unleashing razor snow, of dragons from the blue brought down, births the winter’s walking woe, the High King in his Jagged Crown’,” Vilkas intoned formally. “Forged from dragon’s teeth and bones, they say, and worn by every High King from Harald to Borgas. It’s said every High King put a bit of his power and soul into it.”

            “Exactly,” Njada said unhappily. “Korli said Egil needs something and she wouldn’t know about the Crown.”

            “And if it’s Egil who needs the Crown, something might very well happen to Ulfric,” Vilkas rumbled. “He’s the pick to inherit from his father.”

            “Unless he decides to kill the Dunmer of the Grey Quarter, he can’t possibly be worse than Ulfric,” Athis said dourly, checking the edges of his daggers. “Sorry, Njada, know he’s like an uncle to you and all but the man and his wife are arseholes.”

            Njada took a deep breath. “Egil’s more open-minded.”

            “This is interesting but we need to keep moving,” Vilkas groused. “Sooner we deal with the Silver Hand and retrieve the shards of Wuuthrad, the better.”

            Farkas nodded. “Let’s go.”

            The elite of the Silver Hand were crammed into the far side of the keep. A sturdy Nord man in carved quicksilver lamellar was going over plans with a mixed bag of soldiers surrounding him.

            Aela drew her bow, pulled out one of her precious ebony arrows and nocked it. The shot flew smooth and silently to take the leader in the eye. Pandemonium broke out as the Silver Hand surged forth like maddened bears to avenge their commander.

            When it was over, Torvar stared sightlessly at the ceiling, his warhammer still clutched in a hand tightened by death. Athis found himself blinking back tears at the demise of his drunken Shield-Brother and knelt down to close his eyes. “Kick Tsun’s arse for me,” he murmured.

            “The fourth we lost to the fucking Silver Hand,” Vilkas growled angrily.

            Aela was at the table, examining the orders as Njada went through the bodies of the dead. When she got to the leader, she cursed softly. “I know him,” she said. “Stenvar. A mercenary from Windhelm.”

            “No sellsword never shows this kind of organisation and initiative,” Vilkas observed bitterly.

            “Maybe he picked up some skills from Delphine,” Farkas pointed out.

            “Sure, and I’m a ballet dancer from High Rock,” Vilkas retorted. “The Silver Hand were too organised, brother. Something is very wrong here.”

            “We can worry about it later,” Farkas growled, going through a chest and retrieving Wuuthrad’s shards. “Got an axe to reforge, a dragon to hunt and a Harbinger to send to Sovngarde.”

            Athis exchanged a look with Vilkas. Whoever sponsored the Silver Hand would need to be dealt with.

            But they picked up Torvar’s body and carried him in state back to Heljarchen. Next they would take him back to Whiterun.

            Korli met them at the door of the inn. “Njada, can you fight?” she asked grimly. “We need to go _now_.”

            “Why?” the Stone-arm asked.

            “Because I just got a mage-message from Wuunferth. Rikke attacked Windhelm and managed to stab Egil in the gut as he was putting her sword in her hand to send her to Sovngarde.” The Dragonborn’s voice was weary with disgust. “If whatever’s at Korvanjund can save Egil, we need it yesterday.”

            “By the Nine,” Vilkas breathed. “Go, Njada. We will wait for Torvar’s funeral when you return.”

            “No.” The girl shook her head. “I won’t be coming back. It’s been an honour serving with the Companions but I’m a Stone-Fist first and we’ve served the Jarls of Windhelm since the time of Ysmir. I’m sorry, but…”

            “You go where your honour takes you,” Athis found himself saying. “I don’t know if the wishes of a Dunmer mean anything to you or your Egil, Njada, but know I mean them in the best sense.”

            Njada sniffled a bit as the rest of the Circle crowded around her, offering their good wishes and sympathies. “Thanks… Shield-Brother. If my Da ever gives you grief, let me know and I’ll cover the fine for you punching him.”

            Athis smirked a bit. “Didn’t you know? Punching Rolff Stone-Fist is how I wound up joining the Companions in the first place.”

            “Punching Rolff Stone-Fist should be on the list of things to do in Windhelm,” Korli said wryly. “Farkas, I’ll meet you back at Whiterun.”

            They kissed and Athis glanced away. Dunmer kept their displays of affection quiet. Then the two broke apart and Korli shrugged on her fur mantle. “Kynareth watch over you,” she said sadly.

            “You too. See you in Whiterun.” Farkas smiled weakly before turning back to the stretcher that held Torvar.

            It was a long sad walk to Whiterun, the Companions the lesser for the losses. What was fortune and glory in the face of losing people you’d come to rely on?

            Athis was going to find out who supplied the Silver Hand and finish them.


	13. Shieldmaiden's Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, religious persecution, genocide, torture, imprisonment and war crimes. The AU ‘Jagged Crown’ quest was covered in Chapter 30 of ‘Certain as Death and Taxes’ if you want details.

 

Egil opened his eyes as something cold and heavy was placed on his head. A blurry face with stripes of war paint and dirt on it, hair white as fresh snow, looked down with the smear he recognised as Jora from the Temple of Talos beside her. “Njada,” he croaked. Who else would be here beside what was likely to be his deathbed?

            “Yeah,” she answered. “You don’t have permission to die, Egil.”

            He coughed in lieu of laughter. “Rikke… took… choice from… me.”

            “More words than you’ve managed in two days,” Jora said. “The old stories are true, it seems.”

            “Old… stories?”

            Njada sat down beside Egil and proceeded to inform him of the harrying of Korvanjund and her subsequent leaving of the Companions. Korli’s premonition and the Shieldmaiden’s own knowledge of the old lore may have saved his life.

            Egil lifted a weak hand to touch the Jagged Crown. “Father… will… want this.”

            “Well, once you’re healed, he can have it,” Njada said brusquely.

            The pain had begun to subside. It was said the Jagged Crown would heal and strengthen the true High King. That was a thought he didn’t want to consider, not just yet.

            “Rikke… I wanted to send her to Sovngarde,” he finally rasped. “She stabbed me instead.”

            “Shieldmaiden’s thinking,” Njada observed bitterly. “The oath’s all that matters.”

            “Is it so for you?” He accepted the cup of water Jora gave him, tasting blue mountain flower and powdered blisterwort in it as he sipped cautiously.

            Njada sighed. “I don’t know. I was due for final vows once I left Jorrvaskr. Now…”

            “You think of Rikke.” He was keeping everything the Legate had said concerning his mother to himself for now.

            “And Sigdrifa,” Njada said bluntly. “Korli asked me what your mother’s vow was and when I told her, she said that didn’t make her feel any better because the ends don’t always justify the means.”

            “Mother is… pragmatic,” he finally conceded. The wound was knitting in his gut faster than even Jora could manage it.

            The door to his bedroom burst open, an altered Bjarni filling the space. He had a few new scars and wore elaborate white armour decorated with a snarling bear, a katana of all things hanging by his side. “Will he live?” he boomed.

            “Yes,” Jora assured him. “Njada and the Dragonborn retrieved the Jagged Crown to heal him.”

            Bjarni’s warbler-egg eyes, brown-flecked pale turquoise, reflected his surprise. “I thought she was in Winterhold.”

            “Nah, she stopped the Thalmor there,” Njada informed him cheerfully. “When Alduin’s arse is kicked, she’s going to be Mistress of Jorrvaskr. Her and Farkas are pretty tight.”

            Bjarni broke out into a big grin. “Praise Talos!”

            Then his expression grew sombre. “We must talk, Egil, when you are healed. I have received some… _interesting_ … information from the Bruma Nords we rescued from Fort Neugrad.”

            Egil slumped back with a groan. “Jora, could you offer a prayer of thanksgiving to Talos in my name please?”

            The priestess nodded and rose to her feet. “You will live – and be High King in time. The Jagged Crown doesn’t sit on the head of the unworthy.”

            She exited the room, Bjarni stepping to the side before closing the door behind her.

            “Can Falkreath spare you right now?” Njada asked. “Good job on those vampires, by the way.”

            Bjarni shrugged slightly. “I had some help. Our sister has a brother on _her_ father’s side, an Alik’r Sword-Saint named Cirroc. He killed Balgeir the Bloody in a duel by manifesting a spirit sword.”

            “Sword-Saints? They’re supposed to be the most skilled swordsmen amongst the Redguards,” Njada observed professionally.

            “Too focused on one skill. I beat him in a duel for his services using that grab-and-punch technique Ralof taught us.” Bjarni chuckled a little. “He _did_ head-butt a Volkihar vampire though.”

            Egil shifted as Njada put a pillow under his back. “Falkreath?”

            “Mine. Nenya’s running things there with Rayya as warleader. Stopped by Whiterun and checked in with Ralof before coming here.” Bjarni’s expression was now grim. “Njada, your oath to Talos what I’m about to tell you goes no further than this room. Not even to Father and _especially_ not to our mother.”

            “Oath to Talos,” Njada said softly.

            Bjarni took the chair that Jora vacated, sinking heavily into its padded embrace. Egil’s furniture was old and worn but still comfortable. _Bjarni’s_ had been replaced twice as a child because of his size, strength and energy. “Thorygg’s people cleared out Fort Neugrad, an Imperial prison-fort in the foothills of the Jeralls, and we found a group of Bruma Nords being held captive.”

            “The Empire was taking our rebellion out on them,” Egil said flatly.

            “No. Titus Mede II got wind of the murders of half his kin and Korli becoming known as Dragonborn, so he decided to destroy the last few remnants of the Blades’ civilian support. Since they were Imperial citizens…”

            “Oblivion take that old bastard,” Njada said bitterly.

            “Yes. Though Falkreath now has a population with which to rebuild Helgen.” Bjarni’s smile was too thin. “I met them and understand Korli a lot more. The Blades left their supporters to suffer at the hands of the Empire.”

            “The last Blade joined up with a group of werewolf hunters and tried to kill a Companion,” Njada added sourly.

            Egil blinked. “The Companions are werewolves?”

            “Some were. Aela might make more but the rest of the Circle got themselves cured.” Njada grimaced. “Don’t mention that. I’m not happy about the news but now that it’s a choice instead of a requirement to join the Circle… We each pursue honour in our own way.”

            “Explains the attack on Jorrvaskr,” Bjarni said grimly. “I’ve hunted for Hircine.”

            “Apparently Korli’s hunting a dragon for Him to save Kodlak,” Njada said. “She isn’t happy about it but she’s doing it for Farkas.”

            “Saviour’s Hide?” Egil asked, eyeing Bjarni’s armour pointedly.

            “Yes.” Bjarni’s tone dared him to make an issue of it. “And Bolar’s Oathblade.”

            Egil sighed. Bjarni’s choices were his own, though he didn’t feel _wrong_ the way a Daedra-worshipper usually did. “You didn’t come here to gossip.”

            “No. As I said, we rescued the Bruma Nords. They asked Father for help, by the way, and he refused.” Bjarni looked sad and disgusted for a moment. “Their leader, Janus Break-the-Spear, told me that Mother betrayed the Aurelii and their rebellion to the Empire.”

            “She _what_?” Njada yelped.

            “You heard me.” Bjarni looked at Egil. “And _you_ don’t seem surprised.”

            “Before she died, Rikke told me that Sigdrifa doubted the Aurelii’s descent from the Septims and convinced Grandfather Dengeir and the Falkreath First. That left the northern Colovian clans without allies in the Battle of Pale Pass and the Blades vulnerable to the Thalmor…” Egil gave a full body shudder, his wound a distant ache now. “Stendarr have mercy.”

            Njada’s expression was sick. “It makes a twisted amount of sense. Arius was a lousy leader, Korli says. If the rebellion in Cyrodiil was going to fail, it would be better to retreat to Skyrim, which was in better shape. Marry your father and help build up the Stormcloaks. It’s certainly working better than the Bruma Rebellions did.”

            Bjarni looked nauseous and Egil wasn’t feeling any better. To a true Nord, considering such a worldview made one want to vomit. Sigdrifa hadn’t loved her Aurelii in-laws by any means and most of them sounded like real pieces of work but to callously abandon not just them but the Blades and the Colovians who supported them…

            It was his big brother, always the most honourable one, who realised the full impact of her actions. “She. Left. Our. Sister. To. Suffer. At. The. Hands. Of. The. Empire.”

            Njada reached for the silver bowl on Egil’s bedside table and vomited into it. She then wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. “Korli told the Companions some of what she witnessed. They don’t call her Broken-Blade for nothing.”

            The slow deep rage that Egil felt whenever he encountered injustice began to build inside his gut, overwhelming the pain of his wound. “We say nothing of this outside this room,” he finally decreed. “If it becomes public now…”

            “The war may be lost,” Bjarni finished unhappily. “I don’t like it but you’re right.”

            “I usually am.” Egil managed a flash of weak humour. “We need a way to tell Father this.”

            “That’s assuming he sees something wrong with it,” Njada pointed out. “We all know that Ulfric has no time for anyone who isn’t a Nord and precious little of it for one not born in Skyrim and only a little more for someone from the west.”

            Egil closed his eyes. She was right. Tears were seeping down his cheeks. “He will have no choice but to act. Korli is a Bruma Nord. She is Dragonborn. And how do you think she, or that assassin she calls an uncle, will react when she finds out?”

            “We need to destroy Irkand Aurelius for the death of Grand-Uncle Vignar,” Bjarni added grimly.

            “There’s a lot of things we need to do but as of yet, none of us three can do anything about them,” Egil said, wiping his cheeks. “We are the Stormsword’s sons, you and I. If there was ever a time to demonstrate her patience, it’s now.”

            He opened his eyes and regarded the pair of them. “Justice will come. On Stendarr I swear. But until we are certain, we can’t act.”

            Bjarni finally nodded. “Fine. I won’t say anything outside this room.”

            “Same here,” Njada promised.

            Egil sank back into the bed. “Thank you, both of you.”


	14. The Pet Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of torture and imprisonment. Back to the Companions and a dragon hunt!

 

Korli returned to Jorrvaskr, complexion ashen and expression shaken, and more collapsed into the seat by the fire pit than sat down. “Njada’s on her way to Windhelm with the Jagged Crown and the Dark Brotherhood now have a Listener,” she told Farkas tersely after he pressed a flagon of warm spiced wine into her hands.

            “Irkand?” Vilkas asked darkly.

            “No. Babette Revanche, the Demon Child of Wayrest.” She sipped at the wine carefully. “I think I know the ultimate target of the Brotherhood assassinations.”

            “Titus Mede,” Athis observed grimly. The Dunmer had been dour even for his kind since Driftshade Refuge.

            Aela’s lips pursed. “It makes a lot of sense. Irkand told Skjor he was avenging his family.”

            “And Babette told me Bruma would be avenged,” Korli confirmed. “I hope Akaviria got home safely. Because if the succession in Cyrodiil becomes messy, the Thalmor will take advantage.”

            Farkas still had a bit of a problem wrapping his head around the fact that cheerful, loyal Ria was in reality the Emperor’s granddaughter. “How’d she get a name like that?” he asked curiously.

            “She’s descended from three Akaviri bloodlines,” Korli explained. “Marei, Mede, Taurii. Three of the four original Colovian clans descended from the Dragonguard that swore allegiance to Reman Cyrodiil.”

            “Aurelii is the fourth, right?” Athis asked.

            “Yes.” Korli was looking a bit better now. “If my father sired any offspring – and given his ways, I can well believe it – then Ria’s best choice might be to marry one. That brings the last of the Four Great Clans _and_ the Septim lineage into the fold.”

            She drank some more wine. “We need to find a dragon for Hircine and free Kodlak. Then I need to get back to what I was doing. All of this will become moot if Alduin gets off his arse.”

            “It’ll take a couple days for us to hold Torvar’s funeral, then a few more to scout for a dragon,” Vilkas reported. “We’re down a considerable amount of manpower.”

            “I thought Olfina and Jon were going to join?”

            “In the spring,” Farkas told her. “We don’t take recruits in winter. It’s a ritual thing.”

            “Winter is when we update our records and compose the legend-songs,” Vilkas added. “New recruits would… make that problematic.”

            “You’re the experts.” Korli shrugged. “What matters is I have some days to rest, Kynareth be kind. We can give Torvar the funeral he deserves.”

            “Yes,” Farkas agreed with a sigh. “He will be remembered as a full Companion.”

            “That’s good.” She echoed his sigh. “It’s in my bones all of this – the war and the fight against Alduin – will be over by spring. If not, we’re all dead.”

…

“You, Alik’r! Your kind aren’t allowed in here.”

            “Let me guess, a dumb motherfucker named Kematu came along and decided to be offensive to you,” Cirroc told the gate guard with a wry smile. “He’s like that.”

            “Well, yes,” the guard conceded. “But Jarl Ralof’s forbidden your kind because he roughed up a Redguard woman.”

            Cirroc narrowed his eyes. “Beautiful but for a scar on her cheek?”

            “Oh no, not Saadia. Ahlam, Nazeem’s wife.” The guard tsked. “Very rude of him. We’ve got one of your lot rotting in the jail for it.”

            The Sword-Saint sighed. “The woman with the scar on her cheek might be a traitor to the Ra Gada, one who sold the city of Taneth to the Thalmor during the Great War. What’s the protocol for an audience with your Jarl? My name is Cirroc ibn Rustem and you Nords call me Sword-Saint.”

            “Do you have someone who can vouch for you?” the guard asked.

            “Tell Korli Broken-Blade that Rustem’s only son is here.” If his half-sister was in Whiterun as often as Bjarni claimed, she might come to speak to him. As a survivor of Bruma, she would be very interested in dealing with a Thalmor-lover.

            The guards exchanged glances before one ran up the street. “Very well,” the gate guard said grudgingly. “If the Dragonborn wants nothing to do with you, out the gate you go.”

            Within a quarter-hour, a giant of a Nord with black hair and charcoal war paint smeared around his quicksilver-grey eyes was staring down at him as a shorter, fine-boned female with the Kreathling turquoise eyes and the Aurelii’s distinctive olive-bronze skin regarded him with an arched eyebrow. “He’s got the nose alright,” she observed dryly. “Rustem’s son, then? What is his preferred weapon?”

            “The naginata, the Akaviri bladed spear,” Cirroc immediately replied.

            Korli – Callaina – turned to the guard. “He’s legitimate. Very few would know the proper name for the bladed spear.”

            “You’ll vouch for him, Dragonborn?” the guard asked.

            “I said he was legitimate. If he wants to talk to Ralof, that’s his problem, not mine. I don’t personally know him from the cat down the road.”

            The guard grunted. “Fine, Dragonborn. Pull any shit, Alik’r, and you’ll be joining your friend in the cell.”

            “He was a Crown. He’s no friend of mine.” Cirroc walked past the guard and openly regarded his half-sister. Her pupils flashed red-green like an animal’s in the light as something deadly watched him in return. The Sword-Saint managed to keep his shudder mostly concealed.

            “So a Septim unbound by oaths or prophecies,” she observed grimly. “Brother, I hope you’re good with a sword, because a lot of people will want you dead for existing.”

            “I am a Sword-Saint of the Alik’r!” he retorted.

            “You’re the last male heir of the Septim dynasty, descended from an Aedra and a Daedric Prince,” Callaina said without mercy. “You can choose to be a Sword-Saint, Cirroc, but your bloodline will play a part in your future whether you like it or not. Sooner you accept that, the sooner you can ride the winds of time.”

            Then the predator passed to reveal a weary, worn woman with sad, sympathetic eyes. “What did you want from me?”

            Cirroc took a deep breath. “There is a traitor to Hammerfell inside your city walls. A Redguard woman, beautiful, with scars on her cheek.”

            “Saadia,” the giant rumbled. “You can prove this?”

            “If he can’t, Farengar can,” Callaina said decisively. “Ralof won’t be happy to discover a Thalmor quisling inside the walls.”

            “Quisling?” Cirroc asked.

            “Hidden Thalmor agent,” Callaina explained. “A few of them brought down the Blades and the Aurelii. The Bruma folk call them quislings.”

            “Ah.” Cirroc rubbed the back of his neck. “Speaking of Bruma folk, the Empire were torturing them at Fort Neugrad because you are the Dragonborn and someone was killing Imperial heirs.”

            “It’s not on you,” the giant rumbled quickly as Callaina’s expression went bleak. “It’s on Mede.”

            “It’s on my grandfather,” she finally said. “Arius Aurelius got a lot of good people killed and his legacy still lingers. I bore the brunt of the punishment and when you see Father – if he’s alive – you tell him that from me, Cirroc.”

            “He’s alive,” Cirroc admitted. “I will.”

            She nodded tightly. “Good. Now let’s head up to Dragonsreach. I don’t want to miss a funeral.”

…

Torvar was sped by fire and horker oil, his pyre less grand than Kodlak’s, and his ashes gathered into an urn for interment with the other Companions who perished as heroes of Jorrvaskr. Korli stared at the scorched earth for a long time and Farkas knew her mind was on the brother she’d just met today.

            “Cirroc was the name of the first non-Nord Harbinger,” Farkas finally said. “Maybe it’s an omen.”

            “Maybe,” she said. “I should be happy I have another brother. But all I felt from that one was fear and loathing. He doesn’t like being a Septim.”

            “You didn’t have much sympathy for him,” Farkas told her.

            “The dovah within doesn’t much like him,” she replied. “I don’t think we’ll be enemies, Farkas, but we’ll never be friends.”

            He nodded with a sigh. “It’s as it is. Saadia… Never pegged her as a Thalmor agent.”

            “The best quislings are like that. I’ll need to alert Bjarni and Egil to the idea.” She squared her shoulders. “Aela tells me there’s a dragon at Kynesgrove. Tomorrow, we should go catch us a dovah.”

            “You need rest,” Farkas said.

            “I’m not going to get it. Once this is done, I have to focus on Alduin before I utterly exhaust myself.”

            “You’re not running yourself into the ground,” Farkas growled.

            Her face twisted in sudden grief. “Do you know what the endgame is, Farkas? Me versus Alduin in the mists of Sovngarde. Me. On my own. I mightn’t come back from this, love.”

            “You will.” He said it simply. “Or I’ll kick open the door to the Hall of Valour and bring you back.”

            “You would,” she said with a sad smile. “Farkas, I’m so _tired._ ”

            He wrapped his arms around her. “Then you sit back and rest while we kick some dovah arse.”

…

Sahloknir considered himself a reasonable dovah. So long as the joorre brought appropriate tributes once a week, he would refrain from eating them and devour anyone who threatened them. That was how a ruler worked after all. He couldn’t understand why more of his kind and the humans didn’t follow this path. Alduin was an absent ruler, more content to devour the souls of Shor’s chosen in Sovngarde than the mortal flesh of the living. Maybe he could make a new Dragon Priest or two. Useful joorre, those, excepting Miraak. Thank Bormahu that Miraak was the Woodland Demon’s problem now.

            So when the Nord warriors accompanied by a slender female in white fur approached the hill where he lounged, he didn’t immediately sense the threat. A giant of a Nord and an athletic female would pose no threat to a mighty dovah like Sahloknir. In fact, they guarded the woman, who was an odd olive-bronze colour. Maybe she’d heard of his greatness and wanted power. Sahloknir trusted joorre with ambition because only the dovahhe could help them.

            Then she clenched her fists and sheathed his wings in unbreakable ice. He tried to rise in outrage. “I am Sahloknir, ruler of this strunmah!” he bellowed. “I rule these joorre!”

            “Actually, they give their allegiance to the Jarl of Windhelm just over the hill, and his regent is my brother,” the woman drawled. “I am Kah-Lah-Nah.”

            “You’re the Dovahkiin!” he blurted. “You fight without honour!”

            “And you’re a petty tyrant eating the good people of Kynesgrove out of house and home,” the giant rumbled. “Honour where honour’s deserved.”

            “I’m going to give you a choice,” Kah-Lah-Nah said softly. “You surrender or I shatter your wings.”

            Sahloknir’s eyes widened. “Alduin will devour me, Dovahkiin, either way.”

            “Not if you surrender,” she said. “If you choose, you can have a life of hunting under a master who won’t devour you on a whim, a master even Alduin can’t touch.”

            “You?” he asked, eyeing this rather scrawny example of a joor. She was also a Jill.

            “No. Hircine. Prince of the Wild Hunt. Lord of the Man-Beasts. A Daedric Prince who very much wants a dragon as his subordinate.” Her voice was low and persuasive. “I don’t like killing my kin, Sahloknir, but by terrorising the people of Eastmarch you’ve put me in a bloody awkward position.”

            The other female, a redhead, closed her eyes and the wraithlike form of a stag-headed man appeared. Sahloknir quailed before the power in the man’s eyes and realised that this being was an entity equal to the World-Eater. “He’s a little fat and lazy,” the Daedric Prince observed sourly.

            “I am not lazy!” Sahloknir retorted.

            “You’re right, Hircine. I’m sorry for the poor quality of the prey.” Kah-Lah-Nah sounded genuinely apologetic. “But this was the best I can get on short notice.”

            “I am not poor quality!” Sahloknir was now insulted beyond words. He’d admit he’d been tricked and trapped, but the Dovahkiin didn’t have to be _that_ insulting.

            “What about that guy at Ancient’s Ascent?” the giant suggested. “He looks pretty tough.”

            “Ahgrahyol is nothing compared to me!” Sahloknir insisted. “He is useless!”

            “So you’re saying that you’d make a better hunter than a dragon with hunter in his name?” Kah-Lah-Nah observed mildly.

            “My name means ‘Phantom Sky Hunt’!” Sahloknir insisted. “Ahgrahyol got his name because he kept on getting hit by Odahviing’s Fire Breath Shout.”

            “Uh huh.” Kah-Lah-Nah sounded sceptical.

            “I will make this Hircine a better hunter!” Sahloknir said.

            “I’m right here,” Hircine drawled. “You’re sure about this?”

            “Yes!” the dragon proclaimed. “I will be your hunter, Hircine.”

            The Daedric Prince touched his horns and Sahloknir felt the magic sink into his soul in chains more binding than anything he could break. He howled in outrage as he realised the Dovahkiin had tricked him.

            “Sorry there was no epic hunt,” Kah-Lah-Nah told the Huntsman. “I’m a little pressed for time.”

            “Eh, if the prey’s complacent, it deserves to be caught,” Hircine replied. “I’ll work that fat off his bones.”

            The Dragonborn removed an amulet from her neck and offered it to the Daedric Prince, who took it with a smirk. “Maybe you can hunt for me another time,” he said.

            “Maybe.” Kah-Lah-Nah stepped back. “Got any advice for me on facing Alduin?”

            “Don’t lose,” Hircine advised. “I like hunting in Nirn.”

            The Daedric Prince gestured and Sahloknir felt himself become insubstantial. “Happy hunting,” he said. “Kodlak is yours now.”

            Then the world faded and reformed into a new one of lush woodlands. The dovah felt Hircine pat his head.

            “Don’t worry, Sahloknir. There’s plenty of worthy prey for you here – and hunters that will get that fat off your bones.”

            He whistled sharply and the dovah began his new life as part of the never-ending cycle of the Hunting Grounds. And it was still better than what Alduin would have done to him for failure.


	15. A Chosen Way to Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, suicide and mentions of genocide, religious persecution, torture and war crimes. This is it, folks – the culmination of the Dark Brotherhood storyline with its own unique flair, of course.

 

“Fucking Pennies!” spat Legate Adventus Caesennius as he and the few remaining officers of the Bruma Fourth patched their wounds under the blank stare of Meridia. Strange that the Nords would maintain a statue of a Daedric Prince, even one as blessed and bright as the Bane of Necromancers, but Tullius had long since given up on sense from the people of Skyrim.

            “Better to say, ‘fucking Brotherhood’,” Sevan Telendas observed dourly. “Mephala take those wretched-“

            “Enough.” Tullius’ voice, though weary, cut through their bitching. “Irkand Aurelius was as surprised as anyone else in that chamber. With Maro in Solitude and the Stormcloaks holding everything but the Reach and Haafingar, we need to make some choices.”

            “Titus Mede II betrayed you,” Adventus said bluntly. “He sent you to a restless province with half the soldiers you required and when you couldn’t produce the results he wanted, he had his bastard son pass execution on you. I almost wish the Brotherhood luck in killing the old prick.”

            “They’ll do it,” Sevan agreed tiredly. “Irkand Aurelius isn’t called the Executioner for nothing. The Stormcloaks will roll over Maro and his forces like an avalanche. I’ve squared off against that bitch Sigdrifa for years. If Arius had listened to her, we’d be fighting in the name of an Aurelii Emperor right about now.”

            Tullius grunted as the sole surviving medic tended to his wound. “The Emperor boasted he’d broken Aurelia Callaina. He failed _there_.”

            “No, he didn’t.” Sevan Telendas had once been the Winterhold Legate. “She _is_ the Dragonborn of Nord prophecy. But Balgruuf and Rikke had cooked up a plan to make her Empress – and she ran straight to the Stormcloaks.”

            “Kinslayer or oathbreaker. Hard choices for a Nord,” Captain Aldis said grimly. “But you spoke of hard choices, Tullius?”

            “I did.” Tullius sighed. “We are dead men. The Empire will want scapegoats and it will be us. We face the choice of returning home and facing decimation, desertion and disgrace… or making our deaths mean something.”

            He looked around the ten men who made up his surviving squad. Best of the best. “As I understand it, the Stormcloak army’s camped on the edges of Morthal and Dawnstar near the mouth of the Karth River. The Stormsword’s already moving her soldiers to take Haafingar-“ He broke off, having to swallow a bitter admiration for Ulfric’s general in leaving the difficult Reach until last. “And Ulfric will be among them. He won’t miss this chance for the world, to ride into Solitude as a conqueror where he last fled as a fugitive.”

            “We would serve the Empire by taking out the Stormsword,” Sevan said. “Ulfric has things he won’t do and as a commander, he’s actually kind of shit. She’s both ruthless and competent.”

            “Ulfric’s the heart of this rebellion and from what I gather, the Stormsword has the charisma of a dead mudcrab,” Adventus retorted. “The High Kingship will either pass to Ulfric’s blood-brother Ralof, who’s a jumped-up lumberjack skilled at small-squad tactics at best, or his younger son Egil, who’s barely fifteen.”

            “Not Bjarni, the eldest?” Aldis asked in some surprise.

            “Bjarni’s a good fighter and solid leader but Egil’s the smart one,” Adventus replied. “If he had a few years, he might be dangerous. But if he comes to the throne too young…”

            “Ulfric,” Tullius decided. “I owe that bastard for Helgen.”

            He leaned forward despite the pain in his side and began to sketch out his plan. He just hoped that Marcus back home would keep the Tulli alive, if not thriving. Junia would advise him; she had the knack for politics he lacked and would make good matches for both Marcus and Tullia.

            He was a dead man but before tomorrow evening, so would be Ulfric Stormcloak.

…

“It’s disgusting, Irkand, but it will allow you to breath water and resist the cold for an hour,” Babette said, handing him two vials of salve made from horker fat and other ingredients best left to the imagination. The new Sanctuary in Dawnstar was lousy, to the say the least, though furniture had already been provided by the Thief Delvin Mallory, an old acquaintance of the Brotherhood’s. The rest of the renovations would need to wait on the second payment from the mysterious authority behind the assassinations, which would apparently be left at some old ruin on the edge of Hjaalmarch and Whiterun. With Astrid’s death, the identity of their benefactor had been lost.

            Pity. He’d like to thank them.

            “Let me tell you about the time I waded through sewage to murder a Thalmor High Justicar in Falinesti,” he told the Listener dryly. “Horker fat is positively aromatic compared to Bosmer shit.”

            “It’s a good thing you’re a Redguard,” Festus said as he warmed his hands over a brazier. “Babette, we should send Veezara along as backup. Irkand’s good but Argonians are masters of water fighting.”

            **“Not the Argonian.”** The voice was a powerful contralto that rang throughout the Sanctuary, issuing from Cicero’s mouth. The jester’s face was slack and his normally brown eyes a vivid febrile green.

            Babette stood in that momentary pose she got when listening to the Night Mother. Then she curtsied with delightful precision to the entity inhabiting the Keeper. “Madgoddess,” she greeted formally.

            Irkand bowed in surprise to his ancestress. What possessed Her to speak now?

            **“You’re going to cause quite a fight amongst the Daedric Princes for your soul when you die, Irkand,”** Aurelia Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch who mantled Sheogorath after the Oblivion Crisis, observed with dry amusement. **“Hircine, Sithis and even Myself have a claim.”**

“Sithis is the Father of all Daedra, ma’am,” Nazir said respectfully. “I’d say He gets first claim.”

            **“Maybe. The negotiations will be long and tedious. After Cicero cracked, do you know how long it took Me to get permission to share him as needed? I knew that Irkand would find his way to the Brotherhood eventually and that someone would hire them to kill Titus Mede.”**

“I’m guessing you want Cicero to come along,” Babette said slowly.

            **“Yes. I could have forgiven Cloud Ruler Temple, even the fall of Bruma. Arius tried to play politics and lost. But the slaughter of My clan and the defacing of My shrine in Kvatch? No.”** Aurelia’s voice was all the more chilling for its complete lack of intonation. **“I won’t get in the way of the killing. That’s still dedicated to Sithis. But I want _words_ with Mede.”**

“Her particular aspect is the battle madness of the berserkers,” Irkand finally said. “Her father was an Orc and her mother one of the few Aurelii Nords. If she’s possessing Cicero, he’ll be unstoppable.”

            Babette paused once more with that listening expression before nodding. It was strange how they naturally acceded to her authority. In a matter of speaking though, she was the most experienced, if not the most powerful of their number. “The Night Mother thinks that’s fair enough. On the condition You depart from Cicero once they return to Dawnstar.”

            **“Fair enough. He might even be a little less cracked by the time I go.”** Her smile was a little grim. **“Irkand is My Vengeance. Rustem is the one who continued My clan. And Cirroc, though he doesn’t know it yet, will be My triumph.”**

“Where does the Dragonborn stand in all of this?” Irkand asked. “It’s fucking Callaina.”

            **“If you hadn’t become a werewolf, Irkand, you likely would have been Dovahkiin.”** Her voice was unsympathetic. **“Callaina’s the Aedra’s problem, not Mine. Kynareth’s in particular.”**

“Everyone knows the Aurelii are Septims now,” Nazir noted. “Callaina even wields the Sword of the Septims. They call her Korli Broken-Blade up here.”

            **“That’ll make Cirroc’s life a little easier.”** The Madgoddess shrugged. **“You better get cracking. Tullius is pulling off an insane plan of his own and if it succeeds, you’ll have trouble getting past the Stormsword’s soldiers.”**

Babette’s face brightened. “How nice of him to save us the trouble.”

            The Madgoddess chuckled. **“Indeed.”**

Her presence faded and Cicero’s eyes returned to their typical brown. “What happened?” he asked plaintively.

            Irkand chose to be honest. “The Madgoddess, Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil, has been granted temporary permission by Sithis and the Night Mother to join us on the murder of the Emperor. Because of your, ah, unique worldview, you’re best suited to carry Her presence.”

            “Cicero isn’t crazy!” the jester pouted.

            “No, you aren’t,” Babette lied warmly. “But you understand it and that’s why the Northstar will lend you Her berserker rage for the duration of the assassination.”

            “Very well.” Cicero rubbed his eyes. “So when do we go?”

            “No time like the present,” Irkand said with a faint smile. “We shouldn’t keep the Emperor waiting.”

…

Ulfric was riding along the winding road to Solitude to take advantage of the chaos of Irkand’s latest assassination – as per Sigdrifa’s advice, as she pointed out he was best at breaching walls – when the ambush occurred. Arrows rained down from the hills above, taking out several of his personal guard including Galmar before the rest formed a shield wall. “Tullius!” he bellowed. Who else would resort to the tactic that worked so well the first time. “Come out and face me like a man!”

            From the incline to the right of him, someone threw fire at his warriors’ feet, making them howl and drop their shields. Ulfric dove off his saddle to catch the surprised face of a Dunmer – Telendas, he thought – before he rolled to his feet and Shouted the Legionnaire down the hill to break his back against the nearest pine tree. He then grabbed a shield and held it protectively against the next rain of arrows. Galmar was dead. Talos damn the Legion.

            The next attack were head-sized chunks of stone rolled down the hill to break up the reforming shield wall instead. Legs were broken and soldiers fell with hoarse cries to Talos but Ulfric remained. “Come out, Tullius!”

            Four Legionnaires climbed up from the right and five down from the heights to the right. He’d never expected the General to be this canny in setting an ambush. How couldn’t have Sigdrifa foreseen this? He relied on her for such things.

            Tullius was unshaven and had blood on his gold-trimmed breastplate but the hand clutching his gladius was steady. “It’s over for you, Ulfric. We’re both dead men.”

            Ulfric heard his dozen or so soldiers form up behind him. “Do you really think this will end the war for Skyrim’s freedom? We’ve all but won.”

            “You have,” Tullius agreed. “I wish I could congratulate your wife on winning it for you. But – we’re both going to Oblivion.”

            He lunged forward and Ulfric moved his shield to block the blow. When he pulled it back to Shout the Imperial bastard down the mountain like his Dunmer lackey, an unseen archer released an arrow that sprouted in his throat.

            Tullius laughed weakly, holding his side. “Elisif gave me quite the account of how you fight. Shame she never got to see you die, you Nord prick.”

            Ulfric would have retorted but the mists were gathering around him. To the din of battle he died, feeling the strong hand of Galmar reach for him as they both stood under the strange stars and choking mists of Sovngarde. He just wished he could have seen his sons one last time to tell them he was proud.

…

Titus Mede was standing before the great windows of the Emperor’s cabin on the Katariah when the door cracked open. He clasped his hands to conceal the trembling and turned around to face the doom he’d inevitably expected. The Dark Brotherhood were inexorable and this one… Well, every action had a reaction and here was the one to his most necessary deed.

            “Mede,” Irkand said tightly. “Don’t bother calling for help. Your soldiers and sailors are dead.”

            “Of course they are,” Titus sighed. “You never did believe in limiting collateral damage.”

            **“And Bruma was such a fine example of that,”** observed the ludicrously dressed jester beside the Blade in the voice of the Madgoddess.

            “Your grandson was a traitor, madam,” Titus reminded her stiffly. “As was Irkand, Rustem and it appears Callaina.”

            “Callaina _is_ the Dragonborn, though you did a good job of breaking her,” Irkand said mildly. He was the most dangerous when he spoke like that. “She is a coward who ignores her own destiny.”

            “That’s rich coming from a murderer,” Titus said dryly. “I should have kept the girl close to hand, married her to someone useful. I suppose no good deed goes unpunished for I showed her mercy and look how I was repaid.”

            The jester paused before febrile green eyes narrowed. **“You poisoned yourself.”**

Titus dared to smirk in the face of the Madgoddess. “I was a dead man. I just chose to refuse you the satisfaction of killing me.”

            He drew an ebony dagger from his robes, a sickly sheen on its edge, and drove it into his side. “Long… live… the… Empire.”

            He fell into the darkness, managing one last laugh at the astonished expression on Irkand’s face. But when it cleared, he found himself facing a tall, astonishingly ugly woman with a pronounced underbite, olive-bronze skin and a brawler’s roughened knuckles who wore the white breastplate and kilt of an Arena Champion. Her eyes burned green with fury.

            **“I gave the death to Sithis. But you… you died under My auspices. And you’re going to have a long, _long_ time to enjoy what I have planned for you.”**


	16. The End Has Begun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. Takes place after chapter 31 of ‘Certain as Death and Taxes’.

 

The salvation of Kodlak was anticlimactic and now Farkas found himself with Wuuthrad across his knees in the Harbinger’s chair at the head of the high table in Jorrvaskr. He’d wanted to leave the weapon back with Ysgramor but Aela persuaded him otherwise, telling him to hang it on the wall if he felt uncomfortable wielding it. Eorlund had worked his greatest wonder-smithing when he reforged the battle-axe and made it balanced enough to wield one-handed with an edge sharp enough to wound the wind. Despite their reduced numbers, the Companions were reforged and made whole once more, a new path of honour decided on by the Circle as a whole.

            It would have been better with Korli here but after the news from Haafingar, no one could blame the Dragonborn for stepping up the fight against Alduin. Kodlak’s afterlife depended on her too.

            He was about to give the customary toast when Jon Battle-Born barged in, face white as milk. “You need to see this!” the prospective whelp blurted. “Up at the Throat of the World!”

            Everyone dashed out to see a big black dragon being attacked by a grey one and a little white one. “JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Korli’s voice echoed down the mountain, wrapping the black one’s wings in purple fire.

            It was a surprisingly short fight, the big black dragon crashing down the side of the hill in no graceful manner. A bulky red dragon caught him just before he hit the ground, the two lumbering away in clear defeat.

            “That was Alduin,” Jarl Ralof, who’d been attending the first meeting of Farkas-as-Harbinger, said in shock.

            “He’s not dead,” Vilkas said quietly. “Sorely wounded but not dead.”

            A few minutes later, a shrieking Korli was brought down the mountain on the back of the little white dragon, landing on the road between White River Watch and the gorge. Farkas watched the figure in white fur dismount shakily from the dragon, who then took off and returned to High Hrothgar. He never guessed she was scared of heights.

            “If anyone laughs at Korli for this, I’ll have their heads,” Ralof declared. “She fought Alduin and he fled.”

            “She had some help,” Lydia pointed out. “Probably Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah. Uncle Balgruuf said he’d met them once.”

            “If Alduin wins, they have the most to lose,” Vilkas agreed. “Meet her at the gates?”

            “Yeah,” Farkas said, silently blessing his brother. He couldn’t sit on a bloody seat while his mate staggered into town from a tough fight.

            When Korli entered the gates, the entire city of Whiterun had gathered. Hands plucked at her fur mantle and the hem of her worn brown dress, calling for her blessings on their owners. She was nearly as white as the bearskins, a neat trick, and it took the Circle forming ranks around her to stop the crowd from overwhelming her. The chaos lasted until they reached Jorrvaskr, where Farkas himself firmly slammed the doors against the people with a heavy thud.

            He then wrapped his arms around her and held her as she shuddered in reaction. The others busied themselves by readying food, drink and the warmest chair by the fire pit. Even Ralof and Lydia helped arrange the chairs in a circle.

            Korli finally sat down and gratefully accepted the cup of spiced wine from Athis. “The stage is set for the last battle,” she said after a few gulps. “Ralof, is the dragon trap ready?”

            “Aye,” Ralof said simply. “Balgruuf had prepared it already.”

            “Then in a day or two I will go to the Great Porch and summon Odahviing, the World-Eater’s lieutenant. We’ll need to trap him and then get the information of the portal to Sovngarde.” She sipped the wine again. “I need _rest_ , Ralof. Rest and a chance to settle my affairs. But no more than two days from now, I will be going to the portal and confronting the World-Eater in Sovngarde. Shor be good, Ulfric, Galmar, Kodlak and all the heroes of Skyrim will be there to help me kick that lizard’s arse.”

            “And if Shor is not good?” Ralof asked.

            “Then Alduin will be destroyed and Ulfric remembered. But I’m not rushing into this battle, not with so much riding on it.”

            The Jarl nodded reluctantly. “So be it. I can’t speak for how the people will react though if they know Ulfric was lost to the World-Eater.”

            “I can speak for how the Companions will react if the Dragonborn is lost to haste and exhaustion,” Farkas growled. “She’s the Mistress of Jorrvaskr.”

            Ralof glanced away. He knew better than to push his luck with the Circle after calling on the Silver Hand. “Things are uneasy with Ulfric’s death and Haafingar not yet taken, Harbinger.”

            “Korli will win,” Aela said firmly.

            “Nice to know someone’s got faith in me,” Korli muttered.

            “You will win or we’ll find this portal to Sovngarde and drag you back, Shield-Sister,” Vilkas informed her. “We need someone to take care of our taxes.”

            Korli stared at him before laughing. It was strained and hysterical but true all the same.

            Farkas smiled and hugged his mate. She would come back. It wouldn’t go any other way.

…

“Nice place,” Nazir said sardonically as he and Irkand investigated the tomb known as Volunruud.

            “Appropriate enough to meet an assassin,” Irkand observed. He nodded to the left-hand chamber. “I think the payment’s in there.”

            It was. Ingots of gold and silver, enchanted weapons and jewellery, even an ebony katana of flawless make. Not the coin the Dark Brotherhood was counting on but valuable all the same, especially with Delvin Mallory to fence it for them. Astrid’s contacts still served them well.

            “Completely untraceable,” Nazir noted professionally. “Whoever set this up knew their business.”

            Irkand was reaching for the katana when the gut-deep instincts that kept him alive warned him not to do so. Strange – why should he be concerned about a weapon?

            “Don’t touch the sword,” he warned under his breath to his fellow Redguard. “Something’s wrong here.”

            Nazir nodded, examining the sword from a distance. “Irkand,” he said. “Do you know why they’d put a spider on the pommel?”

            Now as a Blade, Irkand had been educated extensively on the Daedric Princes, their motifs and treasures. He felt his lips pull back into a snarl. “The Ebon Blade of Mephala.”

            “Shit,” Nazir cursed softly. “What do we do?”

            “You know some Telekinesis, right?”

            “Yeah…”

            “Empty that old urn over there and stick the damned thing inside. Babette might be able to help us figure out what to do. Mephala is no friend to our order.”

            “And neither’s the client,” Nazir observed grimly. “We’d have cut each other down.”

            Irkand nodded. “I will be having words with them, I assure you. I don’t take kindly to betrayal.”

…

Babette and the Night Mother had no idea what to do with the Ebon Blade beyond warding it with the strongest spellcraft Gabrielle knew. “That was a good call, Irkand,” the child vampire told him. “It appears our mysterious client is trying to clear up some loose ends.”

            “That’s just offensive,” Festus groused. “We do them a favour and they turn on us.”

            “I need a filled black soul gem,” Babette said. “We need to talk to Astrid and discover the identity of the client. It might be that they were manipulated by Mephala unknowingly. The Webspinner’s capable of such things.”

            “No,” Irkand disagreed. “This feels like a set up. Someone wants the Brotherhood dead because dead men tell no tales.”

            “I’m inclined to agree with Irkand,” Nazir said soberly. “That sword was sticking out, begging to be picked up.”

            “You two would know best.” Babette sighed, shaking her head. “Whoever they were, Tullius and Ulfric were also on the hit list. The Imperial and Stormcloak leadership have been all but wiped out.”

            “Maro’s alive,” Irkand noted grimly. “I wouldn’t mind a go at him for what happened last time.”

            “We also need to find Akaviria Medea,” Babette agreed. “She’s on the list too.”

            Irkand’s eyes narrowed. “ _Ria_. She’s in Cyrodiil now, beyond our current reach. The Companions escorted her to the border after Maro the Younger’s death.”

            “If we’ve been betrayed by our client, the contract’s void,” Festus said firmly. “Maro needs to go, aye, but I’m Colovian enough to want a strong ruler in place for Cyrodiil. What about Egil or Bjarni Stormcloak?”

            “No,” Babette immediately said. “Not them. Nor Aurelia Callaina, even though there’s not a price in the world we could set for her death. That’s assuming she can-“

            “Listener!” Cicero bustled into the main room, dancing with glee. “Cicero has heard the most delightful news!”

            “What is it, Keeper?” Babette asked the jester with a smile.

            “Frorkmar Banner-Torn told everyone in the inn that the great and terrible Alduin fell from the side of a mountain like a drunken sailor!” Cicero announced gleefully. “The Dragonborn and two dragons who lived on the Throat of the World defeated him!”

            Irkand went still. “The end has begun,” he said. “He will have fled to Sovngarde to replenish his strength.”

            “Then let us pray the Aedra and the Daedra are with your niece,” Nazir said soberly. “Because without all that _is_ , all that _isn’t_ cannot exist.”

            “She will prevail,” Babette said clearly. “The earthbones themselves will answer her as the Stormcrown and the Chosen of Kynareth.”

            Cicero chuckled richly. “It’s time for Alduin to pay his taxes!”

            Irkand had to laugh at that and earned a grin from the jester. The end was nigh – for Alduin and the one who betrayed the Brotherhood.


	17. Taking Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, suicide, fantastic racism, violence and war crimes. Time for the Battle of Solitude (such as it is). This happens during and a bit after chapters 31-33 of ‘Certain as Death and Taxes’.

 

Outside, Sigdrifa was wearing an appropriately solemn expression of grief over the death of her husband. Inside, she was screaming with frustration at his utter stupidity at dying when she needed him the most. Without his Voice, breaching the walls of Solitude was going to be a nightmare. They’d have to build siege engines and most of the veterans familiar with such equipment had died with Ulfric. Talos damn him and damn Tullius for being that clever!

            At least the city would be unable to resupply as she held the docks and all roads to it. She took a deep breath and called the commanders of her army to the tent. There had to be a way into Solitude that wouldn’t be prohibitively expensive in either lives or coin.

            Istar Cairn-Breaker was the local man, a former Captain in the Solitude Guard who joined Ulfric after Istlod’s death. “We just need to get a few men in to open the front gates,” he finally said. “If Maro killed as many ranking Haafingar nobles as I think he did, the way _I_ know may have been forgotten.”

            “What took you so long to mention this?” Sigdrifa asked acidly. “We could have taken that city long ago otherwise.”

            “I was working on the assumption that the Haafingar commanders knew about it and protected it accordingly,” Istar retorted with a bite to his words. “But now we’ve confirmed the death of Aldis, Adventus, Falk Firebeard and Thane Bryling, it may not be.”

            “Send two scouts,” Sigdrifa ordered.

            “Yes, Stormsword.” Istar saluted, his gaze icy, and left the tent.

            “You’ve made an enemy there,” Calder, her huscarl, observed quietly.

            “I’ve made many enemies and I’ll no doubt make more by the time I’m done,” Sigdrifa replied, pushing away from the map table. “What word from the east?”

            “Egil’s more or less healed, Ralof’s gathering support for him to become High King and Korli Broken-Blade flew from Dragonsreach on the back of a dragon,” Calder reported.

            The Stormsword closed her eyes. Finally the dragons were being dealt with. Korli took her bloody time about it. “How is the south?”

            “Bjarni left Falkreath in Nenya’s hands and went to Windhelm,” the huscarl continued. “A few dozen Bruma Nords were rescued from Fort Neugrad and are resettling Helgen-“

            “What?” Sigdrifa yelped.

            “A few Bruma Nords-“ Calder’s voice quailed under the turquoise blaze of her eyes. “Jarl Bjarni has the right to settle whoever he pleases…”

            Sigdrifa wrestled her temper into submission. “His compassion does him credit but there were Bruma Nords who worked willingly with the Thalmor. They were called quislings and Arius never found out who they were.”

            “If we take that line of thinking, your daughter might be one,” Calder pointed out.

            “No,” Sigdrifa said firmly. “Quislings fall over themselves to be helpful, whereas every bit of aid my daughter gave us was begrudging or because of a temper tantrum against the gods.”

            She shook her head. “Enough. We wait for Istar’s scouts to return and then take the city. I’ll talk some sense into Bjarni later.”

…

The scouts returned with news of a small smuggler’s passage just past the docks. They’d snuck into the city just under the windmill before retreating to confirm Istar’s story. Sigdrifa appreciated their caution.

            She sent in Istar and ten men wearing the Solitude city guard uniforms acquired from the dead soldiers at Dragon Bridge, giving them orders to kill anyone who saw them. Under the cover of night, she led five hundred men up the road to Solitude, senses alert for any form of ambush. But Maro was a spymaster and bodyguard, not a general, and so she met none. By the time they got up there, Istar was waiting at the open gates.

            Solitude was a sad shadow of its glory days. A few bodies, mostly guards but a couple civilians among them, were sprawled in the streets. As Calder ran back to the main camp to bring more soldiers, she sent half the warband under Istar to secure the Blue Palace while she took Castle Dour. Maro would be at either and unlike Ulfric, she didn’t particularly care who captured the Penitus Oculatus commander.

            Sigdrifa found him in the Emperor’s Tower and woke him up with a sword-point to the throat. “Bind him,” she ordered harshly. “I have questions I intend to ask.”

            “I’ve been conditioned to endure pain,” he spat. “The laws of war-“

            “Apply in the Empire, not in the sovereign nation of Skyrim,” Sigdrifa informed him with a great deal of pleasure. “Thank you, by the way, for removing several people for me.”

            “I told my father he should have killed you,” Maro replied bitterly. “Ulfric was always the figurehead but you… you were the mastermind.”

            “I finally get some respect from you Colovians. Amazing it took twenty-something years to happen.” She prodded him with her sword-point. “Get up.”

            “Go to Oblivion, you hell-hag,” he spat before deliberately driving himself onto the sword.

            “Son of a…” Sigdrifa pulled the blade from his throat and Maro’s corpse slumped back, staining the sheets red. “Pike his head at the gate and round up whatever Penitus Oculatus remain.”

            By dawn, a few Imperial agents had been found and were lined up before the block where Roggvir was executed. “The Empire won’t ransom you,” Sigdrifa announced bluntly. “And you know rather too much about Skyrim for my comfort. Styrr, give them their last rites.”

            The Priest of Arkay regarded her with a dour glare but obeyed, intoning the prayers to Arkay and stumbling over the mention of the Nine instead of the Eight. The clergy would adjust themselves soon enough, because priests were always willing to adapt to the faith of the victor. And Sigdrifa _was_ the victor here. Not Ulfric. Not Bjarni or Egil or Korli. _Her._

It only took thirty years to be finally recognised, to finally restore the true faith of Skyrim. There would be more work – purging loose ends, Imperial and Thalmor sympathisers – but she could breathe the air of a free Skyrim and know that she’d been the architect of its liberation.

            As the Imperial agents were lined up and decapitated one by one, Sigdrifa reviewed her immediate options. It was disturbing how quickly Ralof was raising support for Egil; she’d half-expected Ulfric’s blood-brother to make a bid for regency. Perhaps he knew his limitations and chose to be a power broker instead of a shadow behind the throne. Perhaps he really believed that Egil could rule despite his youth.

            Bjarni would vote for his brother. Idgrod too, because she’d surrendered ‘to the High King that would be’. Sigdrifa wondered how much the Jarl of Morthal foresaw. She wondered how much she knew.

            _Idgrod the Younger seems less afflicted with the family’s mage talents,_ she mused. _Something to consider for the future._

There was no point in going for a regency. Egil was a smart boy and as Ulfric’s son with a major military victory under his belt, he’d have a popularity Sigdrifa knew she lacked. Skyrim appreciated the heroes, not the people doing the real work behind the scenes. They revered the Companions, not the Shieldmaidens.

            What she could do, however, was take care of the problems Egil wouldn’t even see. He worshipped Stendarr and had a black and white view of justice. Like Bjarni, he would trust the seemingly honest without hesitation. Unlike Bjarni, he would execute those who transgressed without hesitation. With mercy but no qualms.

            She blinked, drawn from her reverie by the last head rolling from the neck of an Imperial. “Pike the heads at the gates,” she ordered. “Toss the bodies into the sea.”

            “Yes, Stormsword,” Istar said as Styrr looked ready to protest. One look quelled the burgeoning outburst.

            She chose to return to the camp and her tent there instead of taking quarters in either Castle Dour or the Blue Palace. Torbjorn was dead and Nilsine would need to be found a husband, as Egil couldn’t rule Windhelm _and_ Solitude. Skyrim’s capital needed to be relocated to the east and the Old Holds to break the tie between authority and Empire. It would do foreign ambassadors some good to be dealing with Nords in their true environment instead of the Imperialised Solitude. Maro had done her some favours and left her a few problems. Thankfully, she could at least appoint her own people in Solitude with the nobility wiped out.

            Some paperwork and final reports from the outlying scouts followed before she allowed herself to go to bed. Sigdrifa was about to fall asleep when the sky was shattered by the roar of multiple dragons.

            _“Unslaad krosis. Alduin los dilon. Pah zin Kah-Lah-Nah. Rekthursedovahhe.”_

She knew her daughter’s draconic name was Kah-Lah-Nah; Ulfric told her that. She knew ‘dilon’ meant death, ‘unslaad krosis’ mean unending sorrow. But what did ‘Rekthursedovahhe’ mean?

            _Alduin is dead,_ she realised with some relief. That meant Korli could be put to work. Egil’s Steward, perhaps? That reminded her, she needed to get Farkas out of the picture. Korli wasn’t marrying a glorified sellsword, even the Harbinger.

            Not the Brotherhood though. He deserved that much. Sellsword? The Silver Hand hadn’t worked out. Stenvar lied about his competency and Delphine underestimated the Companions.

            Sigdrifa rolled onto her back and considered the tent canvas. So many variables. How _had_ Talos kept track of everything? He had the Blades and all she had was a huscarl and several soldiers of dubious loyalty.

            She sighed. She’d done more with less. She was the conqueror of Solitude, the general who created the strategy which freed Skyrim. That would count for much at the Moot.

            _First Skyrim,_ she thought. _Then we can unite the other races of man against the Thalmor. The Empire of Talos should never have included mer or beastman in the first place._

She would live to see the crystal-gold towers of Alinor be toppled into the sea and Skyrim take its place as first among the nations of men. The war between men and mer would end, because she would shatter them in ways that Talos had never considered doing.

            Humanity would inherit the world, as it should be, and her children would face no more wars of annihilation. All would be well. As did Talos, she would bend Tamriel to her will.


	18. Huscarls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Returning to ‘The Winter War’. Trigger warning for violence and mentions of death, fantastic racism, child abandonment and war crimes.

 

Egil’s gut still ached from Rikke’s sword but he was as ready as he ever could be to face the Moot. Bjarni returned from Falkreath, coming to Windhelm as the news of their father’s death and mother’s victory at Solitude reached them. Ralof had gathered a number of influential people at Whiterun, bringing them to the Palace of the Kings, and soon every guesthouse, inn and even the abandoned Hjerim were packed to the rafters as the nobility of Skyrim gathered to choose their new ruler. Njada returned to her father’s house once he was healed because _someone_ had to take up the hereditary Thaneship.

            The various Jarls made their way to Windhelm, making entrances grand and small. The much-diminished Companions arrived, led by their new Harbinger Farkas with the legendary Wuuthrad slung across his back, and the mages sent a delegation led by their Arch-Mage Jo’zargo, which made for an awkward situation concerning the laws that kept Khajiit out. As the acting Jarl of Windhelm, Egil decided to suspend them. The cat-folk had kept trade going in Skyrim during the war. Even if it was for profit, they deserved some reward for that kind of courage.

            “Korli’s coming along,” Farkas assured the sons of the Stormsword as he accepted a flagon of mead from Jorleif. “She’s… well, she’s gotta make an entrance. The dragons voted her their new Jarl.”

            “Rekthursedovahhe,” Bjarni rumbled. He’d always picked up Dovahzul better than Egil – any kind of language, in fact. Time spent with the Redguard Cirroc had broadened his knowledge of Yokudan obscenity to impressive levels. “Overlady of the Dragons.”

            At that point, one of the guards came running into the hall yelling that there was a red dragon with a woman on its back.

            “Told you so,” Farkas said with a grin. “Should go and meet her new huscarl.”

            Korli was dressed more finely than usual, her woollen split-skirted dress and shift vivid shades of teal and turquoise banded with brocade strips, her fur garments made from snow bearskin. The lines around her eyes and mouth were deeper but the peace of a purpose achieved rested on that slender form. Egil bowed to her as an equal and she responded with a Colovian-style curtsey. “I’m glad to see you’re alright, little brother,” she told him. “Your father and Galmar are feasting in Sovngarde with Ysgramor and stood side-by-side with me to defeat the World-Eater.”

            Bjarni grinned with relief. “Praise Talos,” he said. “And praise Kyne you’ve returned to us.”

            Her smile was sad. “Too many from both sides of the conflict didn’t.”

            “You carry the dead with you when they are beyond care,” Egil finally said.

            “Someone has to. In Sovngarde, there are no cares or worries, enemies or betrayal. On Nirn…” Those turquoise eyes flashed red-green for a moment. “The work has just begun.”

            Egil swallowed thickly. What did his sister know?

            The red dragon craned his neck down to meet Egil’s gaze and it took every bit of courage he possessed not to flinch at the ancient fire-gold eyes. “Junsebronne,” he greeted formally. “I am Odahviing, huscarl and warleader of the Rekthursedovahhe. She tells me we are to help protect Keizaal and its joorre. When the Krisfahliil come, we will be ready.”

            “The dragons acknowledge you as High King,” Bjarni observed blandly, loudly enough for the gathering crowd to hear.

            “I am not High King until the Moot votes,” Egil told the dragon. “But I am acting Jarl of Windhelm and as such, I welcome you. I trust you will keep your hunting to the wild predators. Horker in particular are common.”

            Odahviing sighed. “I know, Junsebronne. Kah-Lah-Nah tells us that we may be able to trade protection for livestock eventually. She has made it clear we are to live with the joorre peacefully or be… disciplined.”

            Korli’s smile turned a little grim. “The population of bandits is going to make a precipitous drop in the next few weeks. We need to get trade up and running to rebuild Skyrim.”

            Egil found a grin. “Praise Stendarr! Come inside, sister. There is much we need to tell you.”

            Her smile disappeared and the bleak expression in her eyes said plenty. “And I think I can tell you a few things more. Has Mother returned yet?”

            “Calder says she’ll be in tomorrow,” Bjarni supplied.

            “I’ll need a few words with him.” Now the turquoise eyes were positively glacial and Egil nearly shuddered. There was the Stormsword’s daughter, the Nord Korli could have been if the Imperials hadn’t broken her.

            “Of course.” Egil nodded to Odahviing. “I am Egil Ulfricsson-“

            “He isn’t a hunter of Jills any more than Farkas acquires cats,” Korli interrupted with a wry smile. “In the Old Atmoran, his name means ‘honour’.”

            Bjarni burst out laughing and even Egil grinned. The dragon snorted. “I have come to the conclusion a long time ago that joor names make no sense,” he rumbled. “With your permission, I will visit Lokyolah in the mountain in the tundra. He has one of those hairy beasts the giants raise.”

            “Go ahead,” Korli said with a faint smile. “Wind to your wings, Odahviing.”

            “And Kaan be with you, Thuri.” The dragon climbed to the top of the wall and took off, the crowd scattering before him.

            Bjarni sobered. “Farkas is already here, sister.”

            “Good. He’ll want to be around for my chat with Calder.”

…

“What’s a Jill?” Egil asked Bjarni quietly as they entered the Great Hall.

            “Uh, the other type of dragon.” Bjarni pursed his lips. “Female ones, I think.”

            “Most but not all,” Korli said over her shoulder. “I’m a Jill but there’s a male Jill called Teyfunvahzah. He could match Wuunferth for sarcasm.”

            Farkas walked over, picked his sister up and gave her a big kiss as he spun her around. “Missed you,” he growled.

            “It was three hours,” she told him tartly, straightening her dress. The design was mostly Nord but with a Colovian’s love of colour and the Akaviri-style brocade on the hem. Bjarni realised it looked like some of the dresses the Bruma Nord women settling in Falkreath wore.

            “Still missed you.”

            “Njada warned us about you two,” Egil said. “For what it’s worth, we approve.”

            “Too bloody bad if you didn’t,” Korli said tartly. Then her face softened. “Thank you.”

            Bjarni smiled. “You’re welcome.”

            Egil turned to Jorleif and murmured a few things. The Steward nodded and hurried off.

            His little brother made a few excuses, citing ‘family business’ and other such things, before leading them to the family quarters. “You will have a room here,” Egil announced firmly. “I won’t have our sister sleeping in cheap inns.”

            “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’ve made it clear that anyone causing trouble’s going to answer to me and a few pissed-off dragons.”

            Egil nodded. “Ralof told me. My thanks for the vote in confidence.”

            “You’re the only choice,” Farkas rumbled. “We need to talk to Calder. Now.”

            “I know. I sent Jorleif to retrieve him.”

            Soon enough, the fur-capped Steward and the auburn-haired huscarl arrived as they were warming themselves by the fire in the common room. Njada was on their heels because Egil knew that if Calder was involved, their mother had planned something – and the huscarl rarely acted independently.

            When Calder saw Farkas, he went white as snow and turned fluidly, only to meet Njada’s fist. She then grappled him into a chokehold, regarding the others with a cold flat stare. “What the hell did he do?”

            “He hired a Dunmer mercenary to kill me,” Farkas rumbled darkly. “Now, seeing as I don’t go picking fights, I wonder why.”

            Jorleif blanched. “By Talos…”

            “I don’t think Talos had anything to do with it,” Egil said bitterly.

            “That depends on your interpretation,” Korli said starkly. “Kyne knows He used a Dunmer assassin to kill Crown Prince A’Tor in the conquering of Hammerfell.”

            Bjarni remembered his mother’s oath and the speculation of him, Egil and Njada. “Korli… Janus Break-the-Spear and the other Bruma Nords are in Skyrim. The Empire brought them here to interrogate after you were declared Dragonborn and-“

            “Titus Mede made the assumption I was breaking an oath I can’t metaphysically shatter,” Korli finished grimly. “I know. Janus sent me the dress.”

            Egil looked bleak. “He said that Sigdrifa Stormsword betrayed the Aurelii. Rikke told me it was because she didn’t believe you were descended from the Septims and convinced Grandfather Dengeir of the same.”

            Bjarni nodded, remembering the discussion he had with Dengeir. The old man had taken the news that Sigdrifa had believed wrong hard and there was talk he mightn’t live to see spring.

            Korli’s expression went blank, so blank that even Farkas looked a little worried. As for Calder, he struggled until Njada performed a peculiar twist that led to something cracking and his body going dead but his eyes screaming with pain and fear.

            “That makes a hideous amount of sense,” she finally said. “Grandfather never appreciated her skills, she hated Father and…”

            She looked away. “It explains why she left me to die at Cloud Ruler.”

            Bjarni closed his eyes against the pain in her voice. His own heart, already bursting with grief over his father’s death, damn near cracked in two at this revelation. They’d known it, oh they’d known it, but to hear it spoken – to know that his own sister, the saviour of Skyrim, had suffered extensively because of it…

            Egil rose to his feet and walked over to the crippled Calder, drawing his knife. “You will tell us everything and I will give you a clean death. If not, it’s the sea-death for you.”

            Calder’s eyes blazed with terror. The sea-death was damnation but to break his huscarl’s oath would deny him Sovngarde.

            “You’ll be reborn at least,” Korli said softly. “My oath as Valkyria.”

            Calder closed his eyes and began to talk.


	19. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, genocide and religious persecution. Things get… interesting from here on in.

 

Windhelm was the second-most miserable ice-cold shithole in Skyrim, if not Tamriel, and Irkand could hear Nazir’s soft Yokudan curses at his enforced presence within the unlovely city. Of the Brotherhood, Babette and Festus were too noticeable and Gabrielle and Veezara wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the Palace of the Kings, that was assuming the enclaves of Dunmer and Argonians didn’t turn on them for being assassins. They dearly needed a Nord recruit or two because even a pair of Redguard mercenaries in the traditional flowing robes drew too-curious gazes. At least Kematu and his band provided _some_ camouflage.

            Nords were also better suited to the harsh conditions of Dawnstar. Once this business was concluded and a few recruits found, Irkand was thinking of heading to Hammerfell and starting a Sanctuary there. Nazir was teaching him what it meant to be Redguard and given the tricks of learning he’d been trained in as a Blade, he’d be able to pass for a Dragonstar native in a few moons. He’d be _warm_ , praise Sithis.

            _I would like to talk to Rustem,_ he thought with a sigh. The brothers had never been close but Arius’ legacy defined them both. Cirroc, this nephew of his, would also need the training to cope with the burden of the Madgoddess’ plans. Sword-Saints were competent but… one-trick horses.

            Astrid had returned to the Void. She’d been loyal to the Brotherhood, if not the Night Mother, and Sithis was possessed of mercy in His own strange way. She’d managed to give a description of her contact for the contract though. An auburn-haired man, Eastmarcher, with impressive sideburns-

            “Shit.” Nazir breathed the curse softly. A row of pikes was set up before the Palace of the Kings, adorned with a few heads. Most were skulls, the elongated teardrop of Altmer with one craggy-browed Dunmer, but the freshest one matched the description of the man they wanted to question.

            “Redguards don’t display heads?” one of the guards, a fair-haired Nord of the Atmoran type, asked curiously.

            “We tend to stack them into pyramids at the edge of the Alik’r,” Nazir replied dryly. “I just remembered that asshole from a dice game a few years ago. He cheated me and now I won’t be able to collect.”

            The guard grimaced sympathetically as Irkand marvelled at Nazir’s ability to spin a plausible lie. “A man who hires an assassin to kill the Harbinger of the Companions _would_ cheat at dice. The Stormsword’s own huscarl as well, if you’d believe.”

            “Someone tried to murder the leader of the Companions?” Irkand asked, eyes narrowed. “I fought for a time with Skjor the Scarred during the Great War.”

            “He’s drinking in Sovngarde, friend. The Silver Hand attacked Jorrvaskr because they thought they were werewolves because of the wolfskin cloaks.” The guard hawked and spat in disgust. “The old Harbinger and Skjor died in the attack. The Circle reforged Wuuthrad, Ysgramor’s great battleaxe, and wiped them out. The Hero-Twin Farkas is now Harbinger.”

            Irkand closed his eyes in grief. Skjor was his friend. He should see how Aela was doing; losing her moon-mate would be hard. “Better him than that prick Vilkas, I suppose.”

            “Aye. A few claimed it was because he’s marrying the Dragonborn as made him Harbinger but I’ve seen the man himself. Vilkas has more brains but Farkas is better with people.”

            Nazir sighed. “Thanks for the information, friend. Buy yourself a mead at the Candlehearth – and not the cheap kind.” He passed over a generous bag of septims. “Raise a cup to the death of the Thalmor!”

            “I’ll drink to that, Redguard.” The guard grinned and nodded them through. “Alik’r are staying in Kynesgrove because Windhelm’s too damned full at the moment.”

            “My thanks,” Irkand managed to choke out.

            Nazir led him down a winding way into the dark, twisted Grey Quarter. Irkand was surprised to see the dark elves sweeping up snow and hanging the vivid geometric hangings of Morrowind. Spices that burned the nostrils filled the air and the dour mer looked almost cheerful. “Ambarys doesn’t ask too many questions if we hire out the private room at the Cornerclub,” his fellow Redguard explained quietly in Yokudan. “I know you’re grieving for Skjor but I think I know who was behind the Ebony Blade.”

            “My wits aren’t so far gone as to stop me from figuring it out myself,” Irkand said grimly. “Huscarls aren’t capable of that kind of independent action without explicit orders.”

            “Professionally, I can admire the woman,” Nazir observed as they found a dingy little hole in the wall that smelt sharply of flin. “She’d have made a hell of a Speaker.”

            “Personally?”

            “I’m going to see her dead in a manner that denies her Sovngarde,” Nazir said flintily. “I’m a man of many, many sins but damned if I will tolerate someone trying to screw the Brotherhood over.”

            Ambarys eyed the two Redguards warily as they entered. “Private room’s booked,” he said shortly. “You should get out before the Priestess of Azura knows you’re here.”

            Nazir’s eyebrow rose. “The Nords are letting the Dunmer clergy into Windhelm?”

            “Public shrine to Azura,” the Dunmer said happily. “Jarl Egil’s got his head on straight for a Nord. Aranea’s no fool and Azura sends her visions. And while the Mother of Roses doesn’t have a quarrel with your Family the way that Mephala does…”

            “The Reclamations talk to each other,” Nazir finished with a sigh. “Can I at least get some flin? It’s fucking freezing up here.”

            Ambarys sent them away with a few ceramic jars of the pungent Dunmer alcohol. Irkand pondered what he knew of Sigdrifa’s dealings with the Brotherhood and wondered why he hadn’t realised the depths of her ruthlessness and cunning before. That spun out into other things until-

            “…She betrayed us,” he said aloud.

            “Well, yes, we know,” Nazir said testily. “The Brotherhood will respond accordingly.”

            “No. I mean she betrayed us. The Blades. My family.” Irkand’s fists clenched. “Dengeir should have been at Pale Pass but he wasn’t.”

            Nazir had the grace to wince. “Shit, Irkand, I forgot.”

            Irkand waved away his apology. “It’s nothing. The Palace is locked down and Sigdrifa’s boys – not to mention Callaina – know what I look like. What we need to figure out is how to deal with this.”

            Nazir rubbed his bearded chin. “Do you want to kill her yourself or just see her dead?”

            “I want her dead and denied Sovngarde as you do,” Irkand said in frustration. “I don’t fucking care how it’s done.”

            The Speaker smiled coldly. “Perfect. Because I have something that will help us.”

…

“Excuse me, I need to speak to High King Egil.”

            The baritone, enunciated and precise, echoed across the Great Hall and Egil rubbed his weary eyes. “It’s Jarl until the Moot,” he heard Jorleif explain to the whip-lean, white-haired Redguard in elaborate woollen robes of vivid saffron and indigo. “And forgive me, but can it wait until the morning, sir? It’s been a long day and tomorrow will be longer.”

            “I would have left it until tomorrow if the matter wasn’t urgent,” the Redguard replied sternly. “It has, I believe, a bearing on your Moot.”

            “Let him in,” Egil said from the war room. Memories of his father and Galmar leaning over the map-table haunted him from the corners of his eyes. “I’m thinking he’s the new Ambassador.”

            Jorleif flushed. “Apologies, Lord Beroc-“

            “It is, as you say, late after a long day,” the Redguard, Cirroc’s grandfather, said smoothly. “If the news I carry wasn’t so very urgent, I would have waited until tomorrow.”

            They entered the war-room and Egil shoved a hand through tousled brown-black hair. He wished Bjarni was here with his easy charm but the Jarl of Falkreath was asleep. “Jorleif, can you please arrange refreshments and then send for my sister?” he asked the Steward. “If anyone understands political ramifications, it’s her.”

            Jorleif nodded. “Yes, Jarl.”

            When he left, Beroc regarded the youth sympathetically. “Rulership is daunting at any age, let alone a lad of your years,” he observed. “That, at least, is a burden Cirroc will be spared.”

            Egil’s question must have been in his face because Beroc sighed. “He is a Septim and when we won free of the Empire, we swore that no Imperial bloodline would ever hold a position of rulership in Hammerfell again. He may join the army or perfect his skills as a Sword-Saint, but he can never rule among the Alik’r.”

            “He’ll take that hard,” Egil finally said. “Bjarni tells me he’s almost as glory-hungry as a whelp of Jorrvaskr.”

            “He’s also intemperate, disinclined to put the needs of Hammerfell above his own temper, and unwilling to deal with hard truths,” Beroc agreed with another sigh.

            “Why the honesty, Lord Beroc?” Egil asked bluntly.

            “Because I won’t be on this side of the Far Shores for much longer and, as we Redguards reckon things, you are his closest male kin through his father’s marriage to your mother. I don’t know how Nords consider this-“

            “He’s part of the clan. Technically, he should be the Jarl of Falkreath because he killed Balgeir the Bloody and that was the condition Dengeir set for heirship.” Egil smiled crookedly. “But _we_ have a law that a Jarl must be a Nord, the child of a Nord or married to a Nord.”

            Beroc relaxed. “You understand. Hammerfell was watching the liberation of Skyrim closely. You would either be strong enough to free yourself or not. And so it was proven.”

            “The strength was in my parents,” Egil said slowly. “I defended Windhelm, that was it.”

            Jorleif and an immaculately groomed Korli arrived, bearing platters of food. When they were set down on the table, Korli gestured and the sound of everything outside the room faded. “I have a feeling we don’t need eavesdroppers,” the Dragonborn said calmly. “And I’m betting Lord Beroc got his information – whatever it was – from the pair of Redguard mercenaries who exited Windhelm via the Sea-Gate an hour ago.”

            Beroc was too skilled a politician to express surprise at her conclusion. “How did you guess, Lady, ah…”

            “Aurelia Callaina. Called Korli Broken-Blade, Alduin’s Bane, Voice-of-Kyne and a few other interesting epithets the bards are inventing as we speak,” she said dryly. “I’m partial to Callaina or Korli.”

            Beroc bowed elegantly. “An honour, Lady Callaina. We are kin through my daughter’s marriage to your father.”

            “My condolences to your daughter,” Korli said with a sigh. “I, ah, assume you know of…?”

            “Yes. Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Septimi will hold no dominion in Hammerfell.” Beroc took a deep breath and released it explosively. “I love him and I ask as your kinsman to help him as you can.”

            Korli unbuckled the Sword of the Septims and laid it on the table before the Redguard. “Whether Cirroc likes it or not, _this_ is his problem now, Lord Beroc. The Sword that has been broken needs to be reforged in the fire, quenched in the frost and honed on the granite of the mountain. Don’t ask me what that means. Even the dragons can’t piece together the certain future from fragments.”

            “I’m detecting a lack of sympathy,” Egil observed dryly.

            “My brother wasn’t too happy to see me and I have Miraak on my mind at the moment,” Korli replied quietly. “When the Moot is done and my marriage to Farkas completed, I’m going to Solstheim. The First and the Last Dragonborn need to have a little chat.”

            Beroc’s mouth tightened but he picked up the Sword. “You remind me very much of Sura-HoonDing, Lady. I will give Cirroc this and your words.”

            Korli nodded. “Thank you, Lord Beroc. As for the rest of it, your two Redguard mercenaries were members of the Dark Brotherhood. I don’t know what game they’re playing but…”

            “Irkand needs to pay for the death of Vignar Grey-Mane,” Egil said grimly.

            “Good luck with finding him. My uncle is very good at hiding.” Korli sighed. “I apologise for the diverting of the conversation, Lord Beroc.”

            “No matter.” Beroc pulled out a folded piece of parchment. “Nazir ibn Hassan gave me this. Seeing as it has your mother’s seal on it, I thought it relevant to the Moot.”

            Egil accepted the parchment – and yes, it had Sigdrifa’s lightning-surrounded sword on it – and read the few lines within with a grimace. “It’s a reference to Talosian scriptures and histories…”

            “May I?” Korli took the letter from it and read it. “It’s a code and… Sweet Kyne. Get the bloody Priests of Talos. They can translate it better and… Shit. Shit. _Shit._ ”

            “What?” Egil asked as Beroc arched his eyebrows.

            “If I’m translating the references right, the entire massacre of the Imperial family was arranged and paid for by Mother. Akaviria only escaped because I told her to get the hell out of Skyrim – we need a stable Cyrodiil, even if the Empire’s effectively dead. Vittoria Vici, the Marei…” Korli was shaking her head in disbelief. “She’s really lived up to her vows to emulate Talos.”

            Jorleif’s expression was grim. “We can’t prove anything and while it’s, ah, dishonourable to hire the Dark Brotherhood, those assassinations made our fight a lot easier.”

            Korli’s gaze was sad. “Oh, Jorleif, she’s referenced Culhecain as well. The Emperor Zero who died to allow Talos to become the ruler of Cyrodiil. I know that it was the Aurelii who killed him.”

            Egil shuddered. He knew, Stendarr he knew how ruthless his mother was. But if what Korli implied was true…

            He forced his mind from it. “Jorleif, get Lortheim now. Swear him to secrecy. Lord Beroc…”

            “If I’m understanding correctly, your mother is no neighbour I wish to have as a Redguard,” Beroc said grimly. “Maybe those mercenaries were Brotherhood but it doesn’t stop them from being Alik’r loyalists. If Skyrim doesn’t deal with this, we may be forced to.”

            “And before you ask, Mother wrote this,” Korli said quietly. “Dragons are sensitive to time and strong emotions leave their imprints on objects. It’s her writing. I can feel it.”

            Egil looked at his sister. “You’re very calm about this.”

            “Mother betrayed the Aurelii and the Blades,” Korli said bitterly. “If she felt it best for Skyrim, what would be a little kinslaughter? Look at Vignar – a weak old Jarl replaced with the strong, competent Ralof because of a Brotherhood assassination.”

            “But how can you remain so calm?” Egil wanted to scream at her. Tomorrow, he would need to have a heart and face of stone, much like Korli had now.

            “Because I was forced to watch executions and torture from the age of eight,” Korli replied flatly. “You learn quick not to show reactions to whatever you see.”

            “You are the Stormsword’s daughter, you know that?” Egil told her bitterly.

            The look he received in return was that of the Valkyria just before she dealt a deathblow. “No, Egil. I am the Kiss at the End. And it is high time that our mother was brought to account for her actions.”


	20. The Moot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for a suicide attempt and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, religious persecution, genocide, child abandonment and war crimes. Welp, here goes the Moot, folks!

 

It was the day of the Moot, when the Nords chose their High King, and Beroc still mulled over last night’s events. Fifty years of service to the High Kings of Hammerfell, before and after the Great War, as a general and diplomat and it wasn’t until he looked into a Nord woman’s eyes that he understood the First Men as a race. The Sword of the Septims hung heavy at his side, a burden for Cirroc and one that fate decreed he lay on his grandson’s shoulders.

            _“I am the Kiss at the End.”_ A frantic reading of _Gods and Worship_ explained the meaning of the phrase. Callaina was reputedly one of the sweetest, most gracious women alive according to the big Nord with long dark hair that looked like a raccoon with the war paint smeared around his quicksilver-grey eyes. Cyrus the Restless was a great man to drink with but when He unsheathed the Soul Sword, He transformed into Sura-HoonDing, Avatar of the Redguard perseverance over infidels. Korli-Kyne, as Beroc thought of the Avatar of the Nordic Goddess of Storms and Death, was an entirely different entity to the elegant, sad-eyed Colovian Nord female who spoke of her impending marriage. Until last night, he didn’t even think Nord deities chose Avatars.

            Beroc sighed. Egil included him because the putative High King wanted his testimony. The Nord nobility weren’t pleased to see a Redguard, let alone the Dunmer and Argonian representatives. The female lizard-woman Shahvee was even reputedly a Thane in her own right, married to a Nord of high rank from Whiterun who was set to become Jarl Ralof’s Steward. As a Forebear, Beroc appreciated Egil’s cosmopolitan nature. The boy had a black-and-white view of justice, which didn’t bode well for the Stormsword, but he applied it equally just as his brother Bjarni, the Jarl of Falkreath, treated everyone as having the honour of a Nord.

            Jorleif chivvied everyone into their places and Beroc was surprised to see the warriors that were referred to as ‘Companions’ guard the front doors while the big, dark-haired Nord strode to the centre of the Great Hall. “In the name of Kyne Kiss-at-the-End, Shor Lord-of-the-Slain and Talos Hero-of-Men, this meeting of the Jarls of Skyrim is called to order in the Hall of Ysgramor Ebon-Tears,” he announced in a rough, carrying tenor. “We, the heirs of Ysgramor and the heroes of far-famed Jorrvaskr, will guard this Hall and permit no one exit or entrance until a High King is chosen. Do you object to this, speak now and forfeit your place as a Child of the Sky.”

            Since most Nords were rather proud of being Nords, they remained silent and the warrior nodded, banging the butt of his ebony battleaxe on the stone. A gruesome weapon with the face of a screaming elf. “Good. I am Farkas, Harbinger of the Companions. To me is given the duty of arbitrating honour in this Hall, to decide if those who would wear the Jagged Crown and sit upon the Throne of Ysgramor are worthy, for in me flows the will of the Harbingers back to Ysgramor himself.”

            He turned to the Jarls. “Who among you would present yourselves as High King of Skyrim?”

            Egil rose to his feet. He wore light chainmail and dark bearskins, a crown of teeth and bones framing his features. “I would. I am Egil Ulfricsson, son of the Liberator of Skyrim, Jarl of Windhelm. Who would speak for or challenge my right to rule?”

            A rangy, golden-blond man in tawny leather and silk stepped forward. “I am Ralof Storm-Hammer, Jarl of Whiterun, blood-brother to Ulfric. I vouch for this Nord’s right to rule. He is of age, having slain an ice wraith and returned an ancestor to the Wheel. He has defended his Hold and passed judgment on the guilty. He is in the good grace of Stendarr, Lord of Mercy and Might. He has no flaws, mental or physical.”

            Next was Bjarni. “I am Bjarni, Jarl of Falkreath and the elder brother of Egil. I vouch for his right to rule through descent from the Jarls of Windhelm, Whiterun and Falkreath. Thrice-royal is he.”

            The third was Callaina. “I am Korli, Rekthursedovahhe of the Dovahhe. I vouch for this Nord’s right to rule by the granting of the Jagged Crown, which will not sit on the brow of the unworthy; by the acclamation of the dovahhe, who recognise his right to the Throne of Ysgramor; and by the passing of the rulership of Skyrim from the line of Talos Stormcrown to the line of Ulfric Stormcloak. In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, in the name of Atmora of old do I pronounce this.”

            “Holy shit,” someone behind Beroc breathed. “Even if anyone were inclined to challenge him, they aren’t going to after _that_.”

            “Three Nords of good standing have spoken for Egil Ulfricsson. Does anyone have a challenge?” Farkas asked.

            Beroc fancied he heard the bawling of the horkers on the Sea of Ghosts, the silence was so profound.

            “Then so be it. Jarls of Skyrim, it is for you to vote.” An athletic redhead in green leather went around the circle of Jarls, handing each of them a white and black stone. “Yea is white. Nay is black. Cast your votes into the Cauldron of Kyne.”

            The Cauldron of Kyne was a great age-blackened kettle of iron worked with hawk feathers. The Jarls, led by Ralof and Bjarni, tossed stones into the vessel and it rang musically instead of the clank Beroc was expecting.

            When the redhead turned over the Cauldron, all of them were white. It was foregone, of course, but Beroc understood why the eight Jarls had to have their say.

            _I thought there were nine Holds. That’s right, the Reach is still technically in the hands of the Empire but they need a High King to conquer the place again._ Beroc rubbed his chin thoughtfully. That was assuming the Forsworn hadn’t risen again and kicked out the Nords and Imperials alike.

            “So be it. Jarl Egil Ulfricsson of Windhelm, you are the High King of Skyrim.” There was no mistaking the satisfaction in Farkas’ voice as he presented the battleaxe to the youth. “You will now swear your oath of kingship on Wuuthrad, the Storm’s Tears.”

            “In the name of Stendarr, I swear to rule justly and mercifully,” Egil announced, hand on the axe. “I will keep faith with kith and kin, show the foeman the edge of my blade, and treat all loyal inhabitants of Skyrim with honour. In the name of Stuhn, in the name of Kyne, in the name of my ancestors I do swear this. If I am forsworn, may I be denied Sovngarde.”

            Farkas pulled back the axe. Astonishing that the man could handle it one-handed. “Your oath is accepted. In the name of Ysgramor, I confirm you as High King.”

            Egil sank back down into the Throne of Ysgramor as someone pounded on the doors. “Open the doors,” he commanded.

            A tall, black-haired woman in carved plate armour stormed into the Great Hall. Beroc instantly knew he was looking upon Sigdrifa Stormsword. He took a deep breath. Things were about to get interesting.

…

Sigdrifa barely acknowledged the crowds around her as she strode up to the throne where her son sat. Bjarni and Ralof flanked Egil to the right while Korli stood to the left, Farkas – dammit, Calder could have at least gotten _that_ right – a little to the side. “You could have waited to hold the Moot until I got here,” she observed acidly.

            Egil regarded her with his algae-hued eyes. “Sigdrifa Stormsword, Shieldmaiden of Talos, chief architect of the campaign to win Skyrim free of the Empire.”

            She didn’t like the edge in his voice. “You sit on that throne because I won it for you,” she reminded him.

            “We have your letters.” Egil’s voice was now flat as Whiterun’s plains. “You should have fallen on your sword to join Father in death, Mother.”

            “You betrayed the Aurelii, your marriage-kin, and the Nords of Bruma.” A slightly too-thin Nord with olive-bronze skin, a beaky nose and balding iron-grey hair stepped out from the crowd. “You convinced Dengeir that Arius wasn’t Septim blood and we paid the price of it. I declare you nithing.”

            “You _what_?” Sigdrifa demanded. “Egil, who the hell is this man?”

            “His name is Janus Break-the-Spear,” Bjarni replied grimly. “A Nord of good name who lifted blade against the Imperial soldiers at Fort Neugrad.”

            “I will vouch for his words.” Her father, old and suffering a palsy, was helped to his feet by Nenya. “I am Dengeir of Stuhn. What happened to the Bruma Nords – my own granddaughter – is on me. You told me they lied about being Septims and I believed you, Sigdrifa.”

            She took a deep breath. “I was wrong about that, I’ll admit.”

            “You arranged the death of Vignar Grey-Mane,” Avulstein said from the side of that Argonian wench he’d decided to take up with. “For the betrayal of kin-bond, I declare you nithing.”

            “A werewolf killed Vignar. I despise the creatures. In fact, I sponsored the Silver Hand to hunt the wretched beasts down.” Sigdrifa knew public speaking wasn’t her strong point but she needed to make things clear. Talos had done many things that seemed cruel but were better for Tamriel in the long run.

            “I guess killing one Harbinger wasn’t enough, so you had to send a Dunmer assassin after me,” Farkas growled. “What’d the Companions ever do to you, Stormsword?”

            “Calder decided to act on his own account because I wasn’t pleased my daughter was involved with a common sellsword.” Sigdrifa glanced at Korli and wished she hadn’t. There was nothing but cold condemnation in her gaze. “He’s paid the price, I see.”

            “We know he was your go-between with the Dark Brotherhood,” Njada said flatly. “You killed Skjor, Tilma and Kodlak. You arranged for the deaths of my uncle and your own husband. _How does that fit in the vows of a Shieldmaiden_?”

            “Ulfric died at the hands of General Tullius,” Sigdrifa said as calmly as she could manage.

            “And you were angry because he died too soon for your liking,” Korli said, her voice strained. “Kaan aaz, hin paar lost zorox dar, Monah. Kyne have mercy, your ambition has made this, Mother. _Why?_ ”

            “My ambition is for you and your brothers!” Sigdrifa cried. “I’d think you of all people would understand-“

            “YOU LEFT ME AT CLOUD RULER AND NEVER BOTHERED TO COME AND LOOK FOR ME!” Korli’s Voice rumbled and the dragon outside roared in response. She took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself. “No, I can never understand. Trying to makes me nauseous.”

            “How does Father’s death help us?” Bjarni asked bitterly.

            “I respected Ulfric but he was blind to anything outside of his mission of vengeance against the Thalmor.” Sigdrifa decided to tell them the truth about their father. “He was broken by the goldskins. Even if he wasn’t a sleeper-agent, he was still predictable and therefore a weak point when we go to war against them. I’m sorry, Bjarni, but it had to be done.”

            “How Talosian of you,” observed a Redguard in fine woollen robes. “Forgive the interruption, High King Egil, but if I understand correctly Ulfric would have been Culhecain, yes? The King who dies to make an Emperor?”

            “In the letter that you yourself brought to me, yes,” Egil confirmed sadly.

            The crowd was silent but Sigdrifa could feel the storm brewing underneath. “I did what I thought was right,” she said quietly. “I have always done what I thought was the right thing to do.”

            “If that’s your idea of doing good, I should hate to see your idea of doing evil,” the Redguard said grimly. “In Hammerfell, your head would be struck from your shoulders by now.”

            “In Skyrim, that would be awkward,” Egil finally said. “Mother is related to two Jarls and the only ones who can execute her are kin.”

            “That’s easy enough,” Njada said flatly. “She had intent to kill my uncle. I declare her nith-“

            Sigdrifa pulled the dagger from her belt and drove it towards her throat – only for the weapon to be wrenched from her hand telekinetically. Korli moved her left hand and the knife embedded itself in a stone pillar.

            “I’ve seen too many people escape justice,” she said sadly. “I can’t let you do it too.”

            “I declare you nithing,” Njada finished. “I, Njada Stone-arm, Thane of Windhelm.”

            Egil had tears in his eyes. “By the laws of the Nords, you are nithing. Your wergild is set at naught. You have no rank. Your name will be stricken from the records. Kyne will not kiss you at the end and Shor refuse you entrance to Sovngarde. From this moment forth, Sigdrifa Stormsword no longer exists.”

            “I did what I had to!” she screamed. “I did what I had to for Skyrim!”

            No one acknowledged her.


	21. The War is Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of war crimes. Thanks for hanging in there. I will return to this series eventually, just have to work on some other stuff (and survive the end of semester).

 

By the time Farkas and Korli left the Great Hall, Odahviing was washing his tongue on a snowbank, distaste evident on his draconic face. The charred pile of bones and metal in front of him gave evidence to the final fate of Sigdrifa Stormsword. “Krosis, Thuri,” he told Korli. “As your huscarl, I felt it best to remove a potential threat.”

            Korli closed her eyes and only Farkas could see the tears on her cheeks. “No apologies are needed. She was nithing. Nothing.”

            “She was your Monah. No words of the joorre can change this.” Odahviing sighed heavily. “Egil is Junsebronne?”

            “Yes,” Farkas confirmed, keeping an arm wrapped around Korli. “You dragons gonna give him allegiance?”

            “While we are in Keizaal, yes. Outside, only Kah-Lah-Nah’s words will bind us.” Odahviing’s eyes glittered. “The Junne of other lands will have to negotiate terms for themselves.”

            “Only the Thalmor are fair game,” Korli said with an edge to her voice. “And only when they’re outside the Aldmeri Dominion. Humanity isn’t ready for another Great War.”

            “And neither are we. Not all the dovahhe are in Keizaal. Some fled as Alduin died, others were compelled to go to Solstheim-“

            _“Miraak.”_ Korli’s voice hardened.

            “Geh,” the dragon confirmed. “Thuri, he gave himself to the Woodland Demon in the end as Vahlok and Teyfunvahzah cut down his defences.”

            “Hermaeus Mora,” Farkas said flatly.

            Odahviing nodded. “I do not know what it meant. Alduin was busy with other things and I had duties because of it.”

            “Is Miraak the kind of man to talk or attack first?” Korli asked. “I don’t want to fight but if he’s enslaving our people…”

            “He will listen to a Jill.” Odahviing looked away and down. “He may also try to keep a Jill. You are the first joor Jill to be born.”

            “He’ll find it hard to keep anyone with an axe to the face,” Farkas growled.

            “Be wary, Farkas. He can make dovahhe surrender their souls.” If dragons could be terrified, Odahviing would be. “Jills cannot be devoured like that but…”

            “Dammit. Farkas, once we’ve had our honeymoon, I need to go to Solstheim.” Korli looked sick and sad and ready to kill something. “I’m the Overlady of the Dragons. I can’t let some asshole kill my people without cause.”

            Farkas sighed. “It’s gonna be a long honeymoon. You need to rest and I want you to myself for a while.”

            “And Jorrvaskr’s stores need organising for the spring,” Korli added. “Some Mistress of Jorrvaskr I am, running off at the first opportunity.”

            “You’ll come back,” Farkas told her confidently. “Because if you don’t, I’ll lead the Companions to Solstheim and kick down every door until we get you back. We’ve taken on bigger things than a Daedra-kissing Dragonborn.”

            “House Redoran would love that,” she observed, finding a weak smile. Then her face crumpled and she began to wail.

            Farkas let her cry it out as the nobility of Skyrim passed by the dead carcass without comment. He wasn’t sad to see Sigdrifa get her comeuppance but he knew things were going to be hard for Egil.

            But they were alive and Alduin was dead. Skyrim was free. And maybe he and Korli could get a few bloody weeks to themselves. Because while the winter war was over, spring was going to bring a bloodied sun. He could feel it in his bones.


End file.
